


The Pull of My Heart to Yours

by AsteraceaeBlue



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Post-His Last Vow, Season/Series 03 Spoilers, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-10
Updated: 2014-10-27
Packaged: 2018-01-11 20:00:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 75,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1177313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AsteraceaeBlue/pseuds/AsteraceaeBlue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her home had been his safe harbor and they had never spoken of what transpired in the little three-room flat.  They were moments between her longing and his longing, reminding them constantly that forces of attraction are not easily fought.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my fabulous beta, MizJoely

When Sherlock Holmes crossed blithely back into the land of the living two years after taking a swan dive off of St. Bart’s roof, the speculation on the players involved swirled like a hurricane.  In the more intimate circles, the name of one of Bart’s most talented and inconspicuous handlers of the dead was spoken with rapt curiosity and mild astonishment.  Molly Hooper kept her head down and her lips tightly sealed when the flutterings of gossip reached her ears, even when it teased at the idea that her inclusion in his plight had led to a decidedly less platonic relationship.  Especially when it hinted at that.

Because it was true.

She certainly hadn’t meant for it to happen.

After being the one to declare him dead, she’d harbored him in her flat for a total of one night after his fall, during which he saw to plans that she was not included in.  Her living room exploded with papers, maps, and laptops for that night, and when she finally realized he was trying his hardest to shield her from his plans she walked quietly into her bedroom and shut the door.  Sleep was next to impossible, so she simply lay in bed, listening to him rustling around on the other side of the door.

Then, sometime around two in the morning, he walked into her bedroom.  If she hadn’t been awake, leaning against her headboard and worrying the nail of her thumb, she wasn’t sure he would have stayed.  Knowing him, though, he likely expected her to be awake.  He stared at her for a long moment with an expression she knew well:  tired, worn, raw to everything.  The regular coif of his hair had fallen to disheveled strands, his shirt hung loose from his trousers, and he looked like he needed nothing less than a miracle from on high to put him back together.

He may have been flippant about what he had done during the daylight, but night had clearly brought everything into sharp focus.

She waited.

The obvious desperation he showed for some sort of contact outweighed the awkward way he came to her bed, nearly crawling on hands and knees to reach her.  The thud of her heart left her dizzy and it wasn’t simply because he was in her bed.  It scared her to see him so exposed.  She enfolded him in her arms like a child, smoothing a hand over his hair as he buried his face in her shoulder, body trembling with leftover adrenaline and emotion.  Running on pure comfort mode, she pressed her lips to his brow in a chaste kiss, followed by another as the trembling subsided.  When he shifted, her hand slipped along his jaw to hold him in place as she pressed one final kiss to his cheek.

That was all she’d intended.

She’d never expected the sudden turn of his head, his own hand landing at the base of her neck to prevent her escape, his mouth hungrily seeking hers.  There were a few dozen scenarios in her box of Sherlock fantasies that detailed how their first kiss would be.  Desperately clinging to the last friend he had left in the world had never been among them and the only thing she could think, over and over, was, _I’m kissing a dead man_.

For the very reason that she couldn’t sort out if that thought was for his present state or some awful premonition, she allowed it all to happen.  The part of her that screamed, _This is twenty layers of wrong!_ was told to stuff it.  She needed it – needed him.  Needed to know that he was alive, so very alive, in a way he never allowed himself to be.

It was fevered and clumsy and wonderful and he proved he was very much alive.  Twice.

When he lingered in her bed, an arm wrapped firmly around her waist as she lay draped across his chest, listening to the beat of his heart, she grew concerned that she had distracted him.  She knew what he was up against and she would be damned if he faltered now just because she wanted one self-indulgent night with him.

“Don’t you have plans to make?” she asked.

“Everything that can be done at the moment has been taken care of,” he said.

“You should go if you need to.”

“You don’t want me to stay?”

“But you have to go,” she said, snuggling closer into him.

“Ask me.”

“Sherlock…”

“Just ask me, Molly.”

She swallowed and peered up at him.

“Stay?”

She could feel him contemplating the benefits of losing days in her bed; not dealing with the reality of what he’d done.  It would be the easiest diversion in the world, but he would come around quickly and she worried that when he did he would resent her for the lost time.  That was something she could not deal with, even if he didn’t really mean it.  Not on top of the grief she would be facing from John and everyone else.

She would kick him in the arse to get him to leave if she had to.

Fortunately, it did not come to that.  As the grey dawn crept in, he stirred and disappeared into her bathroom, emerging some ten minutes later dressed in baggy, ratty clothes and looking like he was already mentally calculating his first move against his enemies.  She walked him to the door and he stared down at her.

“I took advantage,” he stated, sure he had assessed his actions correctly.

“You did not,” she said firmly.  “Don’t think it.”

“I’m…not sure this will happen again.”

She tried not to hear the more fatalistic reasons behind his words.  Though, the less fatalistic reasons were not all that pleasant either.

“Tell you what – you worry about taking down a criminal network for a bit.  Then we’ll see where we are,” she said with a smile she only half felt.

Taking firm hold of the front of his zippy, she stood herself on tiptoe and pressed her mouth to his, solidifying the memory of his kiss.  He caught her around the waist when she began to pull away, keeping her millimeters from him.

“Thank you, Molly,” he said with the emphatic tone of someone who’s just learned new manners and wants to show the talent off.

He found little ways to let her know he was alive, usually through his homeless network or, occasionally, Mycroft.  Curt notes slipped under the door of her flat left her bemused but happy.

_The Detweiler case – it wasn’t drowning, don’t let Lestrade close that one_

_Don’t work with Whittle, he contaminates his post-mortems and pushes blame onto others_

How he knew the workings of her life, she never quite figured out.  After half a year, when the fuss of his demise had died down and people were beginning to heal and move on with the passage of time, she started receiving different sorts of notes.

_Your bed was warm_

_I wanted to stay_

These almost broke her heart.  Because she had always been far too empathetic to the plight of anyone who was less than happy, her mind conjured images of him shivering in some dank room in St. Petersburg or Kabul or some other harsh, unfriendly place and it made her fret in a way he would have sneered at.  The worst part was having no way to respond.  She spent hours trying to spot the source of these deliveries to no avail.  The one time she fell in the presence of Mycroft during a particularly snarled political case at Bart’s, she’d flustered herself attempting to come up with some clever code phrase to deliver to him; something, anything to pass on to Sherlock.

She needn’t have bothered.

“Miss Hooper, you are doing well?” he asked her upon leaving the morgue.

“Yes,” she said with a sigh of relief.

“It’s been noted,” Mycroft said with a gentle raise of his eyebrows.

Not a month after that encounter, after a typically trying Monday, she returned home from her shift at Bart’s to find all the lights in her flat on, a mess of takeaway in the kitchen, and several articles of clothing dropped on the floor outside her room.

She smiled, shaking her head as she hung her coat up and placed her bag on the table, knowing exactly what she was about to find in her bedroom.

It did not stop her heart from pounding as she approached the doorway. 

There were no words to describe the relief and happiness that filled her as Molly took in the sight of Sherlock Holmes sprawled out in her bed, face smushed down into a pillow.  The blanket and sheets were bunched at his waist, leaving his bare back exposed and her heart in her throat.  His hair was longer, wilder.  He seemed uninjured… thank God.  She wanted to go forward, to lay her body down next to his, her hands itching to run along his skin and reassure herself that he was really there.  But she couldn’t bring herself to disturb him. 

Moving quietly as she could, Molly collected her pyjamas and pulled the door almost shut.  She fed Toby and helped herself to the leftovers in the kitchen before curling up on her sofa, wasting time on her laptop until she was too tired to wait for a sign of consciousness from her room.  She was thankful her bathroom was separate from her bedroom, leaving her free to get ready for bed without worrying about disturbing Sherlock.  She grabbed her glasses from the counter and shut off the light, padding out into the living room and pulling the afghan from the back of her sofa.  With one more glance towards her bedroom, she settled into the cushions and waited for sleep.

The scent of coffee was probably what woke him the next morning.  Molly was enjoying her first cup, leaning against the counter, still in her pyjamas, and reading the morning newspaper when he nearly staggered out of her room.  Naturally, he hadn’t bothered to put on a shirt and his pyjama trousers hung low on his hips.  He took one look at the sofa on his way to the kitchen and fixed her with a stare that held a multitude of opinions.

“You didn’t need to sleep on your sofa.”

God, she had missed his voice.  Deep and precise, like every word was important.  She smiled at him.

“Could hardly have slept on the bed, you were taking up most of it,” she said.

Sherlock nodded, looking unsurprised to find out that he took up so much space.  He gestured towards her face.

“New glasses?”

“Toby got his paws on the last pair,” she said.  “Scratched the lenses.”

He smiled a bit at that.  Her fingers tightened on the newspaper as silence descended on the room and he continued to stare at her.  She bit her lip holding back the dozens of questions she had about what he had been up to, where he had been… was he all right?  He looked fine.  More than fine.  But Sherlock Holmes was a master at hiding his own pain and she desperately wanted to know for sure. 

Just when she thought she would succumb to those questions, he stepped forward.  Her breath hitched as he slowly made his way to stand directly in front of her, reaching up and pulling the paper from her hands, tossing it on the counter.  His arms enveloped her and he kissed along her temple, her brow, ghosting against the edge of her mouth before claiming it fully.

“I wasn’t sure you would want…” she sighed into his kiss.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about…”

“Neither could I.”

“Am I taking advantage?”

“Not a sodding bit.”

He laughed, a short, low laugh, and it sounded so strange, like he hadn’t laughed in ages and was out of practice. 

He knew her better this time, more attuned to her body and her reactions.  He took his time, and she suspected it was because there was no ticking clock hanging over their heads or the risk of delaying a seemingly impossible task.  She saw stars a few times, that was certain, and if his incoherent pleading was any indication, so did he. 

She cradled him as they lay in bed, propped against the headboard and chin atop his dark locks, her arms wrapped around his chest and held in place by his own when his hand wasn’t drawing a line along her leg.  He asked her about work until there were no corpses left to discuss and his curiosity could no longer be stemmed when it came to more serious matters.

“John?” he said softly.

“Hasn’t Mycroft been keeping you in the loop?”

“I want to hear it from you.  He leaves out details he doesn’t think are important.”

“He’s started working at another practice.  Pretty serious these days, but that’s to be expected.”

“It’s been a year,” Sherlock said with a hint of confusion.

“He misses you terribly,” she reasoned, thinking of her own time without him and amplifying it one hundred times to even brush John’s pain level.  “Mary’s helped a lot.”

“The nurse?”

“Mhmm.  Smart as a whip,” she told him with a smirk.  “I think she scares him a bit.”

“Good.  He does better with someone challenging him.”

She wanted to ask if he ever thought of her that way – his challenge, his match.  Even if it only started when it was too late to make its way into their normal lives. 

“Greg finally escaped desk duty,” she said instead.

“Who?”

“Lestrade,” she said with a roll of her eyes.  “Detective Inspector.  A title he might have back before the year is out.”

“Oh.”

“Spends a lot of time at Bart’s, actually,” she said thoughtfully, absently stroking his side with her fingertips.  “I think he wants to keep sharp when it comes to bodies.”

Sherlock hummed noncommittally at this, tightening his hold on her.

“I pop in on Mrs. Hudson every once in a while,” she went on.  “She hasn’t let your flat.  It’s almost the same.  Found a student for the basement, though.  Bit of a lookie-loo, I think, when I met him.  But really, who wasn’t curious those first few months?  God, it’s strange, talking about your death with you right here.  But she’s all right…solid as a rock, you know?  Flutters around me like a mother hen, keeps asking me why I haven’t found myself a decent bloke to be with.”

“Why haven’t you?”

She was floored by his question.  Laying in her bed, his body tucked between her legs and leaning against her bare breasts, and he asked her why she wasn’t seeing anyone.

“Well, because…you.”

Brilliant.  She had a sixty page thesis on the deterioration of human flesh and tissue under exposure to pathogens, several published journal articles, and she couldn’t articulate that he was the reason she wasn’t moving on.

“Me?”

“Yes, you,” she reiterated, finding her voice.  “How would it look, exactly, if I had a man over and there was a note waiting for me that said ‘I miss your arms?’”

“I would have stopped if that were the case,” he said, matter of fact.

“You would just give up on me,” she said, her tone growing cold.

“Don’t presume to deduce my actions, Molly,” he said firmly.  “I told you I wasn’t sure this could continue.  It might be better for you to find someone else.”

“And don’t presume to deduce what is best for my life,” she returned, suddenly wishing they weren’t in quite so intimate a position. 

In answer to her thought, he sat up and turned to face her, bracing his weight on either side of her hips.

“I cannot be what is best for your life,” he said seriously.

“Why don’t you let me decide that for myself,” she said with every ounce of conviction she could summon.

He glared at her and she wasn’t sure if he was irritated at her or himself for letting things get so involved, so tangled.

He stayed for two more days, though she worked nights and slept on the sofa when he moodily took over her bedroom, resting and plotting his next move.  It was much easier for him to use the room than for her to stay locked away, unable to access her kitchen, her bathroom, or her living room and all her reading material and home office.

On Thursday, she woke in the late afternoon light to find a note on the coffee table in front of her.

_Didn’t want to wake you.  Goodbye, Molly_.

Amazingly, she was not sad.  She’d seen how well he was doing, how utterly determined he was to best Moriarty’s network and return triumphant to London.  It took away some of her worry. 

The short time with him had also accomplished something she had at one time thought impossible – it lessened her ache for him.  She didn’t love him any less; she cared just as deeply as she ever had, perhaps even more so.  But something had shifted, even before he had come to her for help in faking his death.  He was suddenly more tangible, no longer quite the enigmatic being that had fascinated and flustered her for so long. 

And she knew she was not just a convenience to him, not just a human asset to be called upon when he needed something.  A new relationship was forged and solidified, but she still recognized his priorities to his work.

Two days later, she met Tom.

If she had been anywhere else in her relationship with Sherlock, she might not have noticed this awkward, kind man who had been invited to the pub by one of her friends.  She certainly would not have paid any mind to him the next weekend when they all reconvened again for drinks and he had made sure to sit next to her, asking about her job and her likes and dislikes, listening intently to her answers.  No, she would have taken one look at this man with his blue eyes and dark, curling hair and her heart would have lurched for someone who was not there. But she looked at him and saw…Tom. 

Tom, who had a good job as an accountant and laughed at her off-color jokes and took three weeks to ask her on a proper date.  Who fit her taste for tall, dark, and adorable.

She found herself genuinely smitten and it took nearly a month to realize that the notes had stopped.  True to her nature, she worried more that she had hurt him rather than about her own feelings.  It was a worry that would not be addressed for another year.

Molly had no indication that her life was about lurch back onto its old path when she plodded down the hall to the women’s locker room, rubbing at a shoulder that was sore from a long day.  She still wasn’t used to thinking about the little failures of her muscles and joints, always starting a bit when the phrase “I’m getting old” popped into her mind.  Already planning for ibuprofen and a large glass of water when she got home, she practically slammed into her locker door when she saw the reflection of the man standing behind her.  He smiled at her when she spun around and the corner of her mouth turned up immediately. 

“Hello, Molly,” he said, the corners of his eyes crinkling slightly with his smile.

“Hi,” she said, suddenly slightly giddy and timid.  They stared at each other stupidly for a few moments before she found her voice again.  “Are you back?  For good?”

He nodded and her heart swelled with relief.  Her eyes drifted down to the cut on his lip and her brow pulled in concern.

“You’ve seen John, then?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“How’d that go?”

“Oh, good, yes, very good,” he said, just shy of rolling his eyes and she smirked.

“You can hardly blame him” she said gently, stepping forward and peering up at him.  “Though I do wish he hadn’t been so brutish.”

At this, she reached up and softly touched her fingers to the edge of his mouth, instinctively wanting to assess his injury.  He went still and the air suddenly crackled with a year of forgetting just what his presence did to her. 

Her mobile chimed in her locker and she jolted back, her hands shaking a bit at her sides as the personalized tone reminded her that she had one very good reason not to be standing so close to Sherlock.  _Tom_.  It scared the living daylights out of her that in one minute her mind had gone completely blank of the man who had asked her to marry him not two weeks prior. 

Wasn’t the timing in life just fantastic sometimes?

The abrupt movement seemed to startle Sherlock and he shuffled backwards a step or two, looking somewhat rejected.

“I should be going,” he said.  “Haven’t seen Baker Street in two years, it’ll be nice to know for sure that Mrs. Hudson hasn’t utterly ruined my organization.”  Molly raised an eyebrow and he gave her a challenging look.  “I have a method.”

She giggled and looked down, a thought creeping into her mind as she stared at his polished shoes.

“You haven’t been home yet?” she asked.

“No,” he replied.  “Just seen John.”

If it dawned on him why she asked, she didn’t find out.  He turned and swept out of the room the moment he stopped talking, leaving her with nothing left to do but hang up her lab coat, slip her ring back onto her finger, and try not to think constantly about the fact that he came to see her immediately after John.

Tom did not seem to notice her distraction when she met him for dinner, though he looked disappointed when she claimed exhaustion at the end of the meal and hinted heavily that she wanted to go home alone.  Too much Sherlock on her mind would have led to guilt-ridden sex and she’d successfully focused purely on Tom every other time up until that point.  Successfully and without effort and she planned to keep it that way.

Of course, Sherlock couldn’t be counted on to be helpful in that area at all.  Just as she curled up on the couch to read herself into sleepiness, comfy in her sweatpants and thermal shirt, the knock at the door came.  She thought about not answering, pretending not to be home.  She thought about what would happen if Tom decided to let himself in after all and found him there.  She thought about the fact that his best friend in all the world had bloodied his lip and his nose and shut him out…

Moving quickly, she pulled out the lab reports she had meant to type up the day before and started her laptop, hoping the staging looked at least somewhat convincing.  Then she answered the door.

“Sorry,” she said with a smile.  “In the middle of some work.”

He nodded, looking unsurprised to have disturbed her.  He looked tired and he gave up all pretense of why he was there when he spoke.

“Do you mind if I…rest here.  For a few hours.”

Her heart sank for him momentarily.

“Don’t tell me Mrs. Hudson - ”

“Oh, no,” he said quickly.  “She was embarrassingly happy…after she stopped screaming.  The flat is just…a bit of a mess.  Not habitable at all until it’s had a proper dusting, sheets are in a deplorable condition.”

“You left her to do all that by herself?” she asked, incredulous.  Sherlock frowned at her.

“She hates when I help.  Says I just get underfoot.”  He looked at Molly expectantly and her heart thudded, warring with herself about what to do.  “You don’t have to…”

“No, it’s okay,” she said hurriedly and found herself stepping aside to let him in.  “I just, um, I’ve got to get these reports done before tomorrow, so I’ll just be out here.  Help yourself to anything and the…well, you know where the bedroom is.”

She said it with a smile and a mind flooded with memories.  Feeling her cheeks grow hot, she turned away and headed back to the sofa before he could say anything.  She tried to focus on the screen of her computer as he wandered slowly into her room and shut the door. 

Fiddling subconsciously with the ring on her finger, she realized he still hadn’t said a thing about it and she had no idea how that made her feel.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank all so very much for the feedback on this! A few more chapters of season 3 analysis after this before moving into new material and more Sherlolly. And for your Sherlolly listening pleasure, may I recommend "Dust to Dust" by The Civil Wars.

What the hell was wrong with everyone?

Mycroft letting him get tortured, spouting on about goldfish and who knew what else.

John engaged and inexplicably not happy to see him.  Moved out of Baker Street. 

Lestrade smoking again.

Molly engaged.  Or at least all signs pointed in that direction. 

Had a single thing not remained unchanged in the last two years?

Despite the warm welcome from Mrs. Hudson and the homey spread of breakfast she had ready for him in the morning, the flat felt all wrong without John.  Mycroft managed to overstay his welcome and Sherlock missed the way John could knock him down off his high horse in one sentence. 

He certainly hadn’t been shy about letting Sherlock know how he felt about being lied to for two years.  His nose was still tender and he felt at a loss as to what more he could do to explain himself.  The right people had been trusted with the information, nothing could convince him otherwise.  Telling John would have put too much at risk.

However, now he wouldn’t answer Sherlock and there were cases to be solved.  He had wasted no time in hacking John’s email and found that his death had not stopped people from seeking out help from 221B.  Some were recent enough to take on – add those to Lestrade’s call and he had more than enough to whet his appetite for the day. 

The answer to the conundrum of having no assistant came to his mind immediately, but he let it roll around for a time, contemplating the intelligence of such a choice. 

He’d left her asleep on the couch before dawn.  He knew she was not scheduled for a shift at Bart’s, even if she did claim to have reports due.  She would work perfectly. 

But then there was the ring.  No sign of it at Bart’s, no doubt for safety reasons during postmortems.  And that one missing item had made it impossible to know that something had changed drastically in her life.  Nothing else had shown.  He knew she’d met someone shortly after his last visit to her flat, although not until long after the stage he would have been able to do something to deter her, if he had wished.  It was convenient, he supposed, that the news would come after weeks of struggling not to contact her, deciding they – he – had let things get to far with no promise of a satisfying ending.  He was therefore surprised she hadn’t shown more signs of the seriousness of the relationship.  But her flat…that had peeled back the wrappings on all the mysteries:  the ring on her finger, the well-used pair of chairs at her table, a second brand of coffee on the counter, extra toothbrush in the bathroom, the scent of men’s aftershave on the pillow that was not on her side.

She’d hesitated to let him in when he thought she would have welcomed him back and now he knew why.  He’d curled into her pillow and tried to focus solely on her perfume, blocking out any evidence that showed his place had been taken. 

But if Sherlock was going to concede his place in her life, he needed to know for certain that she was happy – and that she knew he wanted her to be.  She had done so much for him, after all.

What better way to accomplish that than offer her a day with him, solving crimes?  Two birds with one stone, as the saying went.

He’d not expected her to think he was asking her to dinner.  Never expected to have such a good time with her, to see her so relaxed and…funny.  It was an entirely different dynamic than with John, though of course his friend’s voice managed to push its way into his mind, sarcastic and cheeky where Molly was frank and eager to please, if a bit quiet.  He’d caught her looking at him, her eyes glossed over while he postulated ideas about the disappearance of the man in the train car.  There was a moment of annoyance at that; he did need someone to be with him on cases and help him reason.  With her heart settled on someone else, he had hoped that they could slip into an easy friendship; a suitable working rapport.  He’d not been immune to loss of focus during the day either, as John’s voice had none too subtly questioned Sherlock’s fixation on Molly’s ring.  They were trying too hard, both of them, to maintain a certain distance.

Perhaps one last ditch effort to find out just how much of her personal time she was willing to spend with him…

An invitation for fish and chips.

Turned down.  No – not turned down, ignored altogether.

Trying sincerely to let her know he appreciated everything she had done for him; that she meant the world to him.  Listening to her nervous babble about her fiancé and trying not to feel like the biggest prick on earth for being the reason she had to defend the where, how, and why of her relationship.

Wishing her happiness (he really did) and making a joke about sociopaths that didn’t feel a bit like a joke as it slipped from his mouth.

Standing and staring at each other and knowing without a doubt that their minds were replaying the same memories, thinking of the same ‘what if’s.’

But he could see she was closed off, now; frightened that he would upset the balance she had carefully constructed in her life over the last year.  She was no longer his, if she ever really had been.

He leaned down to place a kiss on her cheek, entirely impulsive and wanting one final token of what they had had, and caught the edge of her mouth.  Turning away and making a hasty retreat from the building was the only thing keeping him from losing to feelings that had no business in his mind in the first place. 

The chip shop was warm and smelled deliciously of fry oil and batter, making him grateful to be back in London.  The comfort of the familiar food was needed.  He liked the way it made him feel at home.

His eyes wandered around the tiny shop while he stood in the queue, watching those surrounding him.  A group of teenagers were laughing hysterically at the corner table, seemingly at nothing.  An elderly couple ate quietly near the window, occasionally looking out onto the street or at each other.  A mother sat with her toddler on her lap, feeding her cooled bites of battered cod and catching the bits that didn’t stay in her daughter’s mouth.  The little girl had a handful of her mother’s jumper bunched in her tiny fist, her eyes focused intently on the food being delivered to her. 

_Goldfish_.

Mycroft may never have seen the point in ordinary people, removing himself from society at large, but Sherlock had been fortunate (or unfortunate, he still wasn’t sure which) to realize that the ordinary could turn out to be quite the opposite at times.  He’d always been taught that intelligence set him apart, made him the fodder for other people’s jokes and jealousy when they were too stupid to understand genius.  That it was better to be ‘other’ and despise the idea of connections.  One extraordinary friendship had shown him just how ridiculous isolation was.

Two years had been too long, he saw that now.  He’d dawdled, enjoying showing off his talents in every new city and country he stepped foot in and never being found out.  Coming back to London and expecting everything to be the same had been naïve, to say the very least.  Of course things would change, why wouldn’t they?  Life was rarely stagnant.  Life moved, evolved, was pushed to change and react to the forces set upon it.

But to have John shut him out, to pull away completely, was a reaction that Sherlock was not prepared for.  He could only hope that Mary was successful in her efforts to change John’s mind.  Until then, he relied on his own arrogance to convince himself that John would eventually come to his senses and realize that he really did miss life with Sherlock.  John was too stubborn for his own good sometimes, but he would, in all likelihood, come round, as Mary promised.  He liked the woman.  Molly had been right, she was entirely perfect for John.  He wouldn’t mind having her around.

Now Molly…she was off limits.  The flicker of ‘something more’ that had been stoked was gone and that was an undeniable truth he had to accept.  She hadn’t waited for him, and could he blame her?  He’d clawed his way into her bed like a frightened stray, waiting until the eleventh hour to comprehend that his heart could want and that it would want her.  The first woman to show him real love, to understand him, and naturally he’d gone about accepting it all wrong.  He would have done all of it wrong, had they the chance, he was sure.

What he had told her remained the best advice – it was better that she found someone else.

Those thoughts were still swirling in his mind when he heard the panicked knocking downstairs at Baker Street, Mary’s voice carrying up the stairwell.  He deciphered the code on her phone almost instantly and suddenly his only thought was that John was in danger and needed his help.

* * *

Dinner?

_Dinner?_

_Good god, Molly Hooper, could you have been any more dense?_

Even if she wasn’t expecting a grand romantic gesture, even if she was ready to distance herself a bit, she had still been deluded enough to think that Sherlock Holmes would act like a normal human being and they would sit down at a table in a restaurant and hash out their relationship like regular adults.  He would of course express regret for losing her to someone else and she would smile fondly and say she hoped they could still be friends, sure to show how well she was doing.  It would go so much smoother than his sudden appearance at both Bart’s and her flat the day before.  She would at least remember to bring up Tom.

But no, there was no dinner intended, no chance to talk.  He wanted an assistant, a replacement for John.

She was flattered, truthfully, that he had called upon her to fill the post.  Sherlock didn’t trust just anyone to help him and if she was reading the situation properly he actually seemed like he wanted the company.  Her company.

It was a day filled with diligent note taking, feeling five steps behind him on almost every case, and enduring what John had christened The Look on at least one occasion (really, she was just as surprised as the jilted daughter to find out the stepfather had been tricking her).  Sitting in Baker Street and watching him solve cases in minutes left her feeling more like a spectator than an assistant, but it afforded her the opportunity to see that Sherlock had indeed grown in his humanity.  He actually expressed outrage for personal injustices to his clients now.

She felt much more comfortable when they left the flat – there were bodies to examine and evidence to look at, areas she excelled in.  He was kind to her, considerate, and if it hadn’t been for the burning embarrassment of being called John in front of Greg, the ‘Ripper’ case would have been truly enjoyable.

And then there was the train flat. 

By the time they arrived at the quirky little home, they were having fun.  Sherlock had laughed the whole way over in the cab about Greg being fooled by a museum display and she could barely contain her own amusement.  She was still giggly when they rang the bell at the flat and were met with the whimsical sounds of ‘Mind the gap.’

They exchanged plenty of looks, amusements.

They flirted.  She would be a liar if she called it anything else.

She got lost watching him, watching his mind turn as information clicked into place and the case instantly became the mystery he wanted to solve.  And she remembered why she was in love with him.

And that’s when the day stopped being about replacing John and she realized that it probably never had been.

The game of avoidance they played in the stairwell was extraordinary.  While she’d been ready to enjoy dinner with him earlier in the day, the idea of grabbing chips with him, possibly going back to Baker Street afterwards…it was exceedingly dangerous territory.  He was trying to extend their time together and if she was a weaker person she might have let him. 

But Molly wasn’t a cheater.  She never had been and she certainly wouldn’t start just because Sherlock Holmes seemed to be testing the solidness of her relationship with Tom. 

He took the hint easily enough and she even got a proper thank you after two years, as well as a massive reminder that her place in his life had been (and was still) far greater than anyone, including herself, had recognized.

The next thing she knew, he was congratulating her on her engagement and she was spewing the most mundane facts about Tom, trying too hard to show that he was the normal man everyone always said she deserved.  Leave it to Sherlock to point out how inconsistent that was to her usual taste in men.

When he stepped towards her, so reminiscent of that night in Bart’s and every moment in her flat that ended with her in his arms, she felt genuine panic. 

_He wouldn’t dare…he wouldn’t, not here, not now, not now that he knows I’ve got someone else…_

The relief when his kiss landed at the very corner of her mouth, toeing the line of innocent, did nothing to dim the cold rush of disappointment that swept over her.  She felt awful.  A part of her had desperately wanted it to be more than that.

Continuing to solve crimes with him would have been the most disastrous idea in the world.

She met Tom for dinner that night at their favorite Thai restaurant and he asked all about her day as they waited for their food, ever the dutiful and interested boyfriend.  He’d known she was going to spend the day at crime scenes – hiding her plans from him once Sherlock had invited her made her feel as though she were sneaking around and she’d immediately sent off a text.

“So,” Tom started, all wide-eyed and enthusiastic.  “Out in the field today?  Not often the Yard asks you to do that.”

“Yeah,” Molly said, fiddling with her napkin.  “Well, Sherlock’s not exactly the Yard.”

“I still can’t believe he’s really alive,” he said, smiling as he sat back and crossed his arms over his chest, looking thoroughly fascinated by it all.  “He really pulled the wool over everyone, didn’t he?”

“Certainly did.”

“Bet you’re relieved he’s not dead, eh?  Must be nice to know your friend is still alive after all,” Tom smiled again.  “Did he tell you how he did it?”

“Erm, no,” Molly muttered, grateful that she had a good reason to change the subject.  She leaned forward, resting her forearms on the table.  “Look, Tom, you’re…probably going to have to meet him at some point.  Maybe soon.  We are very much in the same circle, you see.”

Tom shrugged.

“Not much of a problem, it’d be interesting to meet him.”

“Yeah.”  Molly bit her lip.  “I just want to warn you…he’s not always the most tactful person in the world…”

* * *

Days later, Molly led Tom by the hand to the familiar black door, letting them in as she was accustomed to doing every time she came to the flat.  Up the dark stairwell, the old wood groaning under their feet with every step.  She popped her head into 221B and saw that everyone was already gathered, champagne being passed around and all sorted with John and Sherlock.  She hadn’t really meant to make an entrance, but it worked all the same.  The chance to make sure everyone knew she was officially engaged was perfect.

Introductions were made and the group looked sufficiently surprised to see her with someone.  Or perhaps it was that she brought him to Baker Street, feeding him straight to Sherlock for scrutiny, that had everyone so amazed.

Either way, when Sherlock stepped forward to meet him, his eyes widened and it looked like Tom was the last thing he ever expected to see.

Molly waited, her hands clenching nervously.

To her absolute astonishment, Sherlock merely extended his hand, took Tom’s, shook it once, and stepped out of the room with John on his heels.

She smiled sheepishly at Greg, honestly having expected more of a spectacle.  Jim had not been the first, nor the only, man that Sherlock felt the need to find fault with.  Not that she brought many men around; most of his deductions had been based on her bearing without setting eyes on her dates.  He was never wrong.

It made her wonder – did he see nothing wrong, or was he just not telling her?  She was glad for the consideration to her feelings and those of Tom if the latter was the case.  Yet…she’d grown to trust his honesty and if something was wrong she would rather know.

_Nothing wrong, then_ , she thought.  That was the most comfortable conclusion.

“So, um…Is it serious, you two?” Greg asked as Tom went to collect a flute of champagne.

“Yeah,” she said brightly.  “I’ve moved on.”

* * *

“Did you…”

“Not saying a word.”

“Yeah.  Best not.”

Unbelievable.  The one time he’d promised himself he would be polite and keep the deductions to himself and she had to walk in with a poor copy.  She had to know.  Did she know?  She _had_ to!  Molly wasn’t that oblivious.

Most people had a type.  Perhaps Molly just…had a very specific type.  Very.

He brushed the thoughts aside as he prepared to meet the press, going over all the details he had decided to share with the world. 

Fortunately, Molly and Tom decided to keep the visit brief and Sherlock was only subjected to a few minutes with them when he returned upstairs after the press interview.  He was disappointed to find no real flaws with the man other than the obvious, glaring resemblance.  He watched them walk out the door, Molly holding tightly to this boring, normal man’s hand and smiling sidelong at him.  Off to live a boring, normal life, buy a house, raise 2.5 children and attend school functions.  All very bromidic.

Blinking rapidly, he looked away from the door. 

She would hate it.

 


	3. Chapter 3

It was amazing how quickly things went right back to how they had always been, with the odd difference here and there. Like a stream retreating to its usual flow after the swell of a flood, life found its fit and continued steadily. Cases interspersed with boredom, boredom combatted by experiments. Mary was more than accommodating with Sherlock's need for John's assistance and company, even if Baker Street was unnaturally empty at the end of the day.

He still begged body parts off of Molly when nothing interesting was on. He was grateful that their arrangement, their routine, at Bart's was unchanged. It was comfortable. He often found himself there more than he needed to be, happy to talk with her or just sit in silence while they worked.

So it was perfectly natural to go to her for help with the stag night when the need arose. Somewhere in his memory he recalled her saying she went to the pub on weekends. She had more experience than he did in that area, and he had always been meticulous in consulting experts in areas outside his normal skills.

He'd counted on her enthusiasm for the theme. What he hadn't counted on were the sudden deductions he found himself making.

He put his foot in his mouth, as usual, and she was becoming entirely too talented at calling him on it; staring at him when he realized he had inadvertently insulted her, implying she drank. He tried to cover the mistake, looking for something about her that he could praise without reverting to old habits of artificial compliments. Instant regret hit him as his eyes scanned her.

New hairstyle – very flattering and trying it out because she was feeling confident. Previous comments on hairstyles were connected to a time in their relationship he would rather not bring up, so that was out.

Same clothing style, so not feeling pressured to change who she was or try something new.

Very relaxed, very happy, skin virtually glowing, tension gone from the body, possible increase in cortisone levels –

Oh god, she had had sex that morning.

It hit him like ice water and he struggled to hold his reaction in and get the right word out.

Well. She looked well, that should do it.

And of course she would confirm his deduction, making sure he knew Tom was not only psychologically normal but very not gay. His mind actually skidded to a halt at her cheerful declaration. Fortunately, he got back on track within moments, listening to her sage advice about inebriated behavior.

There was a variable she had not included in their calculations, however: John Watson.

The wasted case opportunity and the headache from hell were his two largest annoyances until he started going through his text messages.

_Was it godd? -Sh_

_What?_

_You seemed vry hqppy, was it good? -S_

_Was what good? -M_

_The sex! The lotsof sex you are having -S_

_Molly -S_

_Molly! -S_

_Did you decide not to follow the plan for pacing? -M_

_My lab worth had always been perfection, if there was n error it was on your end -S_

_Dammit, lab work -S_

_Call a cab, Sherlock, you're drunk and I would guess John is too -M_

_You okay? -M_

_Please let me know you're okay -M_

_Never mind, I just spoke to Greg :)_

John never said a word about it so he must have had the conversation while John was in the toilets or otherwise occupied. It was a relief that he did not see Molly again until the wedding – an event at which he planned to abstain from drinking insomuch as his duties allowed.

The wedding.

The day he saw two people go through the motions of societally dictated ceremony and expensively declare their love. More importantly, he saw a family take shape. He said goodbye to life with John Watson as he knew it. It was, as many say, bittersweet. His friend was happy and in love; but he would no longer have John there at all times to be his bright spot in the day, his personal amusement and his moral compass.

The event wasn't as awful as he had feared; he'd somehow done the speech well, had a bit of fun with Janine, even solved a murder and stopped yet another from happening. He hoped that would suffice for a gift to the happy couple as he hadn't seen the point in buying them anything domestic. And really, what better wedding present could he give John than a murder investigation resolved at his own wedding? It was perfect.

It proved a nice distraction from watching Molly's relationship disintegrate before his very eyes.

Whether she knew it yet and whether she would end things, he was not certain. The predictability of human behavior only went so far. She was happy enough to dance the night away with Tom, though.

Molly and Tom. Janine and the Geek. John and Mary. Silver rings and happy endings.

It was a world to which he didn't belong. And so he left.

Only a few days after the wedding, he received a most intriguing proposition from Lady Smallwood – a case that had the potential to take down one of the most disgusting blackmailers he'd ever encountered. He let the case consume him immediately, obsessively throwing himself into every detail involving Magnussen. His plan began to formulate when Janine's name surfaced, becoming the connection he needed to get close to Magnussen. It was easy enough to set things in motion; the rapport they had shared at the wedding made for an easy transition to coffee dates and late nights at Baker Street. He'd made a good study of John's dating habits and brushed up on the fuzzy details with clips from the latest popular films.

His flat was slowly invaded by her presence, he was quickly running out of reasons to abandon her alone in his bed every night, and he couldn't help the thought that if it had been Molly none of it would have been necessary. Not the clichés of dating, not watching someone rearrange his things, and certainly not the avoidance of intimacy.

It was early on in the plan that he considered drawing Magnussen's attention with some misbehavior. The hypnotic trek to the rotting underbelly of London soon became a requirement, a way to convince his mind that he could stand nicknames, sickeningly sweet bodywash, and disturbed sleep.

It was for the case. It was all for the case. It was always for the case.

* * *

Cleaning her flat to within an inch of its life was not a common way for Molly to spend her day off, but when one's engagement has just ended and the little pieces of another person that wound up layered into one's life keep popping up at inopportune moments, it seems like a fine idea. She couldn't even manage a load of laundry without stumbling across one of Tom's shirts that accidentally made its way into her hamper.

_Her_ hamper. Engaged for eight months and she always differentiated. It wasn't until it was over that it even dawned on her there had never been any talk of moving in, of sharing, of becoming one. They were still separate. Her things and his things.

So she took it upon herself to turn the place upside-down and box everything he might want back. The things that belonged to neither of them but still held a memory she chucked into the rubbish bin. Like the remainder of the bottle of wine they had shared only four days ago. The night they had returned from John and Mary's wedding.

She'd felt the fissures begin to form that day, the uncertainty creeping up on her as she looked at Tom with embarrassment and couldn't help comparing him outright, not only to Sherlock, but to everyone she was close to. He didn't fit. Like a puzzle piece that got mixed into the wrong box.

Molly also realized she had been far from honest with Tom. When he had flopped onto her sofa, loosening his tie and shedding his jacket, giving her the lopsided grin she used to find endearing, she knew it was time.

It was late, they'd had an obscenely long day, and it was absolutely the wrong conversation to have after the silly bliss of attending a wedding, but she had to put it all out there for him and whatever happened…happened.

Grabbing two glasses and the bottle of Chardonnay, she walked into the sitting room and sat on the floor opposite him, depositing the glasses on the coffee table. She tucked her stockinged feet under her, feeling the smooth silk of her dress through the nylons, and poured them both a generous glass.

"I knew," she said carefully.

"You knew what?"

"I knew that he was alive. I helped him. Faked his death."

"Who…you mean Sherlock?" Tom asked with surprise. She nodded, holding her glass with both hands and taking a sip for courage.

"There were only a few of us. It was so important that no one else knew. So when I met you and you asked about him…I'm sorry I had to lie to you," she said quietly.

Tom regarded her for a while, his expression slightly bewildered.

"You could have lost your job," he said, and Molly held back a wry laugh. Of course he would only be concerned for her welfare. "Faking records…isn't that illegal?"

"Not when Sherlock's brother is who he is," she told him.

"So all that time," he said slowly, leaning forward and setting his glass on the coffee table, not quite looking at her. "You knew he was okay."

"In a manner of speaking. 'Okay' has always been a loose term with Sherlock."

Her humor fell flat and by the look on Tom's face she could see that he was beginning to make connections, if only just skimming the surface. She swallowed and felt the tension of her pulse increase in her neck. Downing her wine suddenly seemed like a fabulous idea, but she refrained from the obvious sign of weakness.

"Did you see him at all?" Tom asked.

"Ah…sometimes," she said, her voice cracking ever so slightly. "He used my place to…plan."

It sounded weak, even to her own ears. And it was in that moment that she saw the defenses go up, the slight hardening in his eyes. Not anger, not really, but the beginnings of a distance that was only sure to grow.

"Before or after we started seeing each other?"

"Before," she said quickly, and then realized that wasn't the whole of it. "And once when he first came back, but it was different then…I was with you."

"Different," Tom repeated her word, looking as though she had just confirmed a question. "Meaning that before…"

Molly took a quick breath and swallowed her pride.

"We were…"

"Together?" he guessed.

"Not really. I mean, not like boyfriend and girlfriend, but…yeah. Together. For the blink of an eye."

"Enough of a blink, though, I'm guessing."

She rubbed at her nose quickly, feeling the first hints of moisture gather as tears threatened her eyes. God, why was she crying? Wasn't she prepared for the worst, wasn't she actually rather tired of this relationship?

"I'm sorry I kept it from you. Not really good form to talk about your ex and all that. Or whatever he is. But I needed you to know."

Tom was silent for several moments before she heard him let out a sigh. She looked up and saw that he was overly focused on the half-empty bottle of wine sitting before them.

"I love you, Molly. You know that. And I know you love me, even if I'm not exactly a genius," he said, finally looking up at her. Her voice caught in her throat, effectively silenced by his knowing words. "But look…I'm not stupid enough to try to marry someone who is in love with someone else. No matter how much I love her."

It was said so gently and in that moment the universe decided that ordinary was never going to be good enough for Molly's life.

And so they went about the motions of a breakup, returning personal items, wondering how their social lives would continue. She gave him the ring, knowing it would have hurt too much to keep it. Tom had no opinion one way or the other on the subject, but seemed content enough to take back this small symbol of their relationship.

Cleaning and clearing left Molly with a sense that there were possibilities again, that life was fresh. That, perhaps, the Sherlock she had seen at the wedding who basically bared his soul and proved he was not an emotionally stunted robot could be her new horizon. Things were changing all around them. He was changing.

Her hopes dimmed when he practically fell off the face of the earth for a month. 'A case' was the only thing Mrs. Hudson was able to tell her and she accepted it, knowing how involved he could get.

But it all crashed down around her for good when John rang her at Bart's, warning that they were coming in – for a drug test.

She was so angry she could barely see straight to run the tests. She could not remember the last time she had felt such pure anger, making her ears ring and the blood pump through her body in a disturbingly tactile way. Really, she needn't have bothered with the tests at all. All she had to do was take one look at him to know he was high off his arse and she was shocked it was even a question for John and Mary. She hadn't known Sherlock long enough to have firsthand knowledge of his 'habits,' but she had been warned: Mycroft had come to her early on when Sherlock started frequenting Bart's and her professional help. At the time, she was clueless as to how she could possibly help if it came to a relapse.

Now she understood.

She stood before Sherlock and did what John could not do and what Mycroft was unable to – she slapped him as hard as she could until she saw some flicker of remorse and realization spark in his eyes. Because she knew that with Sherlock, words would not work; words could be deflected, battled with his own wit. He needed the shock to make him understand the magnitude of what he had done, the hurt he had caused. She ignored the personal cuts and his horrendous attitude, not giving him an inch to put the focus anywhere but him.

Whether or not her actions helped she wouldn't find out for another week and a half when she would again receive a call from John.

"Molly…I should have called sooner…"

* * *

Strange things happen when facing death, particularly in a mind brimming with knowledge on how to prevent it. Not his knowledge, of course – the knowledge of others that he had come to rely on. It was an interesting time to find out that, despite years of declaring contempt for other humans and embracing solitude, Sherlock Holmes' best defense against death turned out to be the people in his life. He was not able to fight alone. They loved him and they saved him.

Molly was his first thought.

John was his last.

Molly kept him holding on and John was the reason he came back.

She saved him again.

He clawed his way back to life in order to save John.

The lies were exposed, the perfection of matrimony was shattered, and John was at the center of a very dangerous game of blackmail.

Sherlock teetered on the edge of life and death, using every reserve of strength he could manage to end the agony of the lies built up between the Watsons, ripping the bandage off of Mary's secrets and forcing John to see the reality of his life. Though he was the one physically deteriorating, he felt that all three of them were on the verge of dying that night in Baker Street. Nothing was resolved, but by the same token nothing had been severed, either. There was still hope for the Watsons and Sherlock was sure his effort was worth it.

He succumbed to his injuries, pushed beyond his limits, and finally accepted the rest and treatment the hospital bed offered.

Two days later, he blinked awake, wishing at once that he could go back to sleep. The pain was still excruciating. He really must remember to time things better. Perhaps not manage to get shot right before he needed to save his friend's marriage. When his senses returned enough to take in his surroundings, he noticed the presence at the end of his bed. Her hair was dyed a stunning shade of red and it was much shorter, but he recognized those ruby lips. She was propped against the curve of the plastic footboard with a newspaper balanced against her thighs and a cup of tea in hand.

"Morning," Irene said in a smooth voice, eyes never leaving the headlines. "Feel free to tell me to bugger off anytime. You must have a lot on your mind."

"What are you doing here?" he asked, not risking sitting up any further than he already was.

"Hopped a plane from Goa when I heard you were shot," she said, turning a genuinely concerned eye on him.

"Touching," he said a smile. "But you've been in Bristol for the last five months."

She lowered the paper and gave him a sly smile.

"You're no fun at all, Mr. Holmes."

"I must be slipping if you ever thought I was fun."

"Oh, loads. Don't you remember Karachi?

"Moment of weakness," he muttered, looking away from her.

"You seem to be having a lot of those recently," she said, tutting a bit. "Magnussen's secretary - "

"Case," he bit out.

"'Course it was."

"And how did you - "

"Everyone knows," she said smartly, leaning forward and resting an elbow on her knee. "I'll leave it to your brilliant mind to figure out how. But that's not the serious moment of weakness, is it? Your dear little pathologist is."

His eyes narrowed to slits as he glared at her.

"Oh darling," she crooned. "Don't look so stricken. Do you think you're the first one to whisper the name of your heart's desire in your sleep? You even did it in Berlin when you were playing at death. It was John one time, actually. Of course, it had a totally different ring to it. Made me wonder, though…"

"She is not a weakness."

"So you worked it out?"

"There's nothing to work out," he said gruffly.

"Oh no? Send her my way, then. She's delightful."

"Um, no," he said firmly.

"Mmm," she hummed in consideration. "I would have thought you were above that, dear. You don't want to commit, but you don't want anyone else to play with her either. Careful with that…someone will come along and take her if you leave your things lying about."

He stopped short, suddenly useless at schooling his expression into one she might not be able to read. Highlighting his failure, he heard her sigh of sympathy.

"But that's already happened, hasn't it?" she said gently. When he wouldn't meet her eye, she changed the subject. "Thought you would want to know, in case he hasn't told you, that Dr. Watson had officially returned to Baker Street. I've been keeping a little lookout."

"Hm. Good thing I put his chair back, then."

"What happened there?" Irene inquired.

Sherlock shrugged as much as his aching body would let him.

"Oh, the usual," he said. "Marital tiff. Disagreement about window dressings, most likely."

She gave him a slow smile, not believing him for a moment. He offered nothing more and she hopped off the bed, retrieving her purse from the visitor's chair. She walked towards him and took his hand, giving it a light squeeze.

"I have to be going, I'm afraid. Can't risk being out for very long these days," she said secretively.

"Especially when you've got a fine reason to be at home anyway."

She smirked, but flushed slightly.

"Miranda. She could very well be the one," she told him with a coy shrug and an arch of one perfectly shaped eyebrow. He gave a small smile and a nod, somehow knowing that this was a parting of the ways for them. "Take care of yourself, Mr. Holmes," she said softly before turning and sauntering out of the room.

It wasn't until she had left that he noticed the single rose on the far table.

* * *

Sherlock was starting to feel abandoned as he lay in hospital and it was a feeling he resented greatly. It seemed that every other woman in his life had the time to stop by his little recovery room except that one that he was truly expecting to see. He hadn't seen or talked to Molly since Bart's and the humiliating episode that was his drug test. In many ways, he didn't blame her for staying away; he had a nice track record of driving people away. The day was somewhat of a blur (he couldn't even keep track of which car he was in or where people had gone), but he knew he had been a sight to behold. He'd fucked up in a huge way with Molly Hooper. But the selfish, egotistical part of him wanted her to come through the door, worrying about him in the way that she did, and he was hurt that she wasn't conforming to routine.

When she finally did walk through the door to his room, he was still feeling the sting of rejection, no matter how self-centered it was.

"So you finally decided to pay a visit?"

"Yeah, well, someone finally decided to tell me what happened to you," she replied bitterly. He gave her a confused look and she pulled up a chair. "John only just called me last night. As usual, I am a footnote in the story that is Sherlock Holmes."

The annoyance he had felt at her absence dissipated and he felt guilty for even thinking she was being dramatic by not coming to see him. He would need to remind John that Molly was on the top of the list of people to call when he was gravely injured.

She looked at him and he could see the redness in her eyes. She'd been crying. His fault, of course, again.

"All right?" she asked.

"I've been better."

Molly nodded and looked away, her ponytail swaying a bit with the abrupt movement. He could always imagine that hairstyle so clearly, no matter how long he spent away from her. Even when he was dying, he could see the little details about her as she worked to save his life.

"Thirty-two," she said suddenly, her voice sounding raw.

"What?"

"Thirty-two," she repeated, her jaw tensing as she spoke. "That's how many bodies ended up in in my morgue last year from overdose."

His gaze dropped down, unable to look her in the eyes any longer. The hurt and disappointment he saw there was worse than any lecture from John or snide remarks from Mycroft. Molly Hooper took up a far more intimate corner of his heart and not simply because he had shared her bed. She always managed to hold up the mirror to his own behavior and never failed to let him know when he was wrong. Always trying to keep him righteous, or as close to it as he could get. And he listened, because she was brilliant and trustworthy and would always be there to catch him when he fell.

But now, the way she looked at him made him realize he had jeopardized that, perhaps permanently.

"Maybe you don't care, or at least you pretend not to…but I have to see those families, Sherlock. I have to see the heartbreak and the destruction every single time. To think that it could have been you, that you could have done that to us…" She nearly choked on the last few words, pulling in a deep, shaking breath. "I can't be your handler, Sherlock. I don't want to be your replacement for the drugs, because if one day you decide it's not working anymore and you end up right back with a needle in your arm, I will not be able to live with it. But if you can promise me it'll never happen again, if you need support, a friend, a…anything. I will be a fucking rock for you, Sherlock, but only if you find it in yourself to walk away from all that for good."

She'd obviously been thinking about what she would say to him for days, practicing exactly how she would lay down the law. Molly rarely strung together so many sentences without thinking it over first. It was why he felt bad the instant he opened his mouth to respond, but as a true highlight to their contrasting ways, he rarely thought before he spoke.

"I've been shot," he said, slightly confused that it didn't concern her more.

To his surprise, she gave a short laugh, shaking her head and running the tips of her fingers under her eyes to wipe away the tears that were collecting there.

"You complete arse," she said. "I _know_ that."

"And yet you're lecturing me about something that completely pales by comparison."

"Getting shot wasn't your fault," she said incredulously. "Getting high on heroin was. I'm a little more worried about that."

"I wasn't going to overdose, I had it completely under control."

"The hell you did."

"It was for a _case_."

"Oh yes, I heard all about your case," she said bitterly, looking up at the ceiling. "That's the only way you could possibly suffer through a relationship, isn't it? By flying higher than a kite."

"It certainly helped."

"It was an excuse - "

"I didn't care about her!" he practically shouted, wincing as the effort engaged his abdominal muscles. "Not in that way."

"All the more reason for you to feel like a shit, then!" she snapped back, her face angrier than he'd ever seen. "And if you don't understand why, then you're not nearly as much of a genius as I thought you were."

She was up from the chair and to the door in seconds, not waiting for his response, though he had the answer as soon as she was gone.

* * *

Baker Street with John was not as pleasant as it used to be. Sherlock was barely returned home from hospital when he started to think of places to go instead. Not that he didn't want to be there for his friend, but he was not generally practiced in the ways of cheering up a cranky man whose marriage was on the rocks because his wife was an assassin. Every time he tried to broach the subject or otherwise be a distraction or some form of comfort, John yelled or slammed something on the table and it frequently ended with him storming up the stairs. After a week of this, Sherlock needed space.

He took a risk in choosing Molly's, but all things considered, he stood a better chance of resting peacefully there.

When he entered her building, he took the elevator to the third floor and almost just let the door slide closed again when he looked out into the hall. At the last second, he put his hand out to catch the door and pushed it open, stepping onto the worn wood of the hallway. He knocked on her door before he could think twice about it, feeling his heart jump a bit when he heard movement on the other side. There was a pause as she looked through the peephole and he heard a sigh.

A few seconds passed and then the door unlocked, swinging open to reveal Molly in athletic shorts and a sweatshirt, her hair braided to the side.

The look on her face left him nervous. She seemed uninterested. Tired. Bored.

"Out of hospital, then?" she asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

"For the time being," he replied, his gaze unable to focus on her face. "Check-ups and all that, periodically."

Molly nodded, looking down at her feet.

"I'm surprised Mycroft let you out of his sight," she said quietly, her weight shifting and her hip jutting out a bit. Finding a more relaxed pose.

"Oh I'm pretty certain he put cameras in Baker Street," Sherlock said casually, yet feeling the exact opposite.

She nodded again and remained silent. His stomach started to tighten as he began to worry that this would be their new modus operandi – him suddenly craving her attention, her comfort, and feeling his hopes crumbling when she didn't give it at the drop of a hat. Oh how the winds had changed.

When the silence had stretched beyond what was comfortable, Molly finally looked up at him.

"You need a place to stay?" she asked, sounding like she already knew the answer.

"Just tonight…if it's not too much of a bother."

Stepping to the side, Molly nodded and let him in. He carefully removed his Belstaff, folding it neatly over the back of a dining chair as she walked past him.

"I was just going to bed," she told him, stopping at the door to her bedroom when he didn't respond, giving him a quizzical look. "Coming?"

He blinked, amazed that the invitation remained to share her bed, and quickly followed before she had the chance to change her mind. As she tossed back the comforter on her bed, he noticed that she had purchased new sheets. He kept his deduction about the reason to himself. She slid into bed, not saying a word when he removed his shirt and belt. In an effort to send the right message, he kept his trousers and undershirt on – just needing a place to rest, not expecting anything from her at all.

When they had settled in a way that was surprisingly habitual, Molly reached out to turn off the light and they lay in the dark, both perfectly wide awake.

"I know why you were angry," he began slowly, keeping his tone unpretentious. He knew he needed to remain repentant if he was going to set things right and he was in no way pretending.

"About the drugs?" she asked, her voice small, but tense.

"No. About Janine. About using her as a means to an end." He got no response and decided to plunge ahead. "I would never have done anything like that to you."

"Should never have done that to anyone," she told him haughtily.

He took a quick breath and considered his words.

"You're right. You're always right."

Molly rolled over and he could just see her eyes in the dim light, her brow drawn down in contemplation.

"That's the funny thing about you, Sherlock. You always think you need to trick people into helping you – that for some reason we won't do it simply because we want to. When are you going to get that all you need to do is ask?"

Letting her words settle, he shifted so that he was fully facing her. He could smell her perfume again, and only her perfume.

"Simple as that – just ask," he said, thinking of all the times the people in his life had done so much for him without the slightest provocation.

"Sometimes," she replied, giving him a small smile.

"Not much of a challenge in that," he teased cautiously, taking her smile as a sign that they were on better ground.

She laughed, looking displeased that she had allowed him to put her in a good humor. Without hesitation, Sherlock reached out and looped his arm around her waist, pulling her close until she rested against his chest, her hands pressed firmly into his back. This was what he had needed, wanted, for months and he was not ashamed to admit it.

"Don't think I've forgiven you," she muttered against his shoulder.

"I know," he said, smiling.


	4. Chapter 4

"You think I should forgive her?"

"It's been four months, you should at least talk to her," Sherlock muttered, trying to ignore John's incessant pacing in the kitchen at Baker Street. It made it very hard to focus on holding the pipette steady for DNA sampling. He steadied his elbows on the table for additional support as he poised the pipette tip over the surface of the agar gel.

"I've done all the talking I want to do," John grumbled, throwing his head back slightly to relieve the tension in his neck.

"Then go forgive her," Sherlock said slowly, pushing the plunger down. John laughed sarcastically. "Then don't forgive her."

"Bloody lot of help you are."

Sherlock plunked the pipette on the kitchen table with a frustrated huff and looked at his friend.

"Look," he said sharply. "You have all the facts you need to make an informed decision - "

"Yeah, she shot you and she lied," John fumed.

"Oh god, we're back to that," Sherlock groaned, dragging his hands over his face. "She made a bad decision. She's not the first person in the history of the world to do so."

"A bad – a _bad decision_? She almost killed you!" John shouted, spinning on the spot and accidentally kicking the leg of the table, upsetting the entire test. Sherlock watched the water and the sample he had spent half an hour preparing slosh over onto the table. John looked at everything, seeming to just notice that Sherlock had been occupied. "Where the _hell_ did all of this come from?"

"Bart's."

"You stole all of this?"

"I asked for it," Sherlock told him calmly, looking despondently at the mess. John looked at him as though he had sprouted a second head. Giving the experiment up for lost, Sherlock stood up and walk to the counter. "Tea?"

"No, I don't want any bloody tea," John snapped, sitting down at the table with a huff.

Sherlock studied him while he filled the electric kettle with water, taking in the tension under every inch of skin, the puffiness under his eyes. His clothes were not in pristine shape, but that was nothing particularly new for John; the lack of attention to his appearance for an extended periods of time however, was.

"You should look at the - "

"I don't want to look at the memory drive," John silenced him quickly, crossing his arms and refusing to follow Sherlock's advice for the tenth time.

For several minutes, the only sound in the kitchen was the bubbling of the heating kettle.

"Have you considered the fact that she has a child to take into account now?" Sherlock started calmly. "That Magnussen may very well have threatened that life along with hers. And yours."

John became very still and his eyes looked straight ahead.

"Of course I have…it doesn't excuse - "

"She was cornered. She panicked. She did the best she knew to ensure everyone's survival and the survival of her family," Sherlock stated, letting the slightest hint of emotion into his voice as he spoke. He looked over at John. "Mary is on the right side, John. She always has been. It might not be to society's standards, but she is."

He could see John's breathing expand his chest in a controlled manner, his hands clenching into fists. His mouth was set stoically, but in his eyes there was a softening, a hint of the conflict within. Sherlock pulled the kettle from its base and poured the steaming water into the tea pot.

"You'll forgive her."

John laughed, annoyed, and shook his head.

"And how do you deduce that? How do you always think you know what I'll do?" he demanded.

"Because if you weren't going to, you would have walked away already. You could turn her in, take custody of the child, and go on with your merry life."

Swallowing hard, John's gaze dropped.

"That's not…not at all what I want."

"I know," Sherlock said, lifting the teapot to pour his afternoon cup. "Now you need to find out how you will forgive her."

* * *

 

Sherlock got one thing completely right and one thing spectacularly wrong.

John forgave Mary and made sure her past remained buried.

Magnussen still won.

He'd never felt so wretched, so utterly defeated, as when he watched John stand there and take the abuses of Magnussen, knowing all of their lives were about to be ruined. Sent off to jail, if they were lucky. Mary would be found out. And the child…faced with never knowing its parents, the bravery and magnificence that was the Watsons.

The decision was easy as he comprehended the fate he had just sealed for John and Mary.

It was a bit of a blur as he was swept away from the estate, quickly delivered to a government building and placed into custody in a sparse, locked room. Lacking anything else to do, he sat himself in a stiff leather and chrome chair near the wall and waited. Hours passed before anyone entered the room and when the door finally opened he wished he were still alone.

"You've gone too far this time, brother mine."

"I am fairly aware of that."

Mycroft was not as adept at keeping the poker face he seemed to pride himself in. Quite often, his feelings shone through in complete defiance of the cool exterior he wished to portray. Sherlock suffered from the same weakness, but unlike his brother, he was able to put on a fine performance when the occasion called for it. At the moment, Mycroft was showing the brotherly affection that had been missing between them their entire lives. Sherlock recalled his words outside their childhood home just the day before and realized they must have been sincere.

"We don't have many options for you, I'm afraid," Mycroft said with a sigh of failure. "You should have listened to me. Left well enough alone."

"You have no idea what the implications of leaving well enough alone would have been," Sherlock muttered, leaning further back in his chair and stretching his arms along the arm rests. If only Mycroft did know what would have happened – it could have swayed his opinion of Sherlock's actions. As it was, Mary's true identity and the previous life she was hiding remained the knowledge of Sherlock and John and no one else. He intended to keep it that way.

"Well the implications of getting involved are now quite clear." Sherlock's eyes flicked up to his brother and he awaited his fate. "The mission in Eastern Europe. It's your best chance. If there was anything more I could do for you, Sherlock, please know I would."

The earnestness in his brother's voice left Sherlock surprised and humbled. His sentence was what he expected – better, actually. At least he would be able to do some good for the world before he met his end rather than waste away in a prison cell. John and Mary would be safe and would never have to pay for his error in judgment.

"John can't know how that mission will end," he said firmly. Mycroft's expression faltered slightly at the blatant acknowledgment of Sherlock's expected fate.

"If you prefer, you can tell him yourself," he offered. Sherlock nodded in agreement. Mycroft paused for a moment before speaking again, shifting his weight as he prepared to leave the room. "We'll make the arrangements. I'll be back soon."

As he turned to leave, Sherlock lifted his head and made a decision he knew would expose a relationship even more dear than the one with John Watson.

"Bring Molly Hooper here," he said decisively before he could second guess his choice to reveal this secret to Mycroft.

"The pathologist?" Mycroft said incredulously. "Sherlock, the airstrip was the best I was hoping for the Watsons as a meeting place. What makes you think - "

"Brother, seeing as how I just killed a man to allow John Watson the love of his life, I would think the least you could do is let me say goodbye to mine with a little privacy and dignity."

Mycroft blinked at him, slightly startled. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I know the idea must be a shock to you, but we're running out of time here, so if you could hurry up a bit," he said testily.

"You found yourself a goldfish," Mycroft said slowly.

Sherlock's jaw tensed at the condescending description, one he would never have applied to Molly, not even when she was just the pathologist he went to for favors.

"For being the 'smart one,' you are really incredibly obtuse sometimes, Mycroft."

His brother cocked his head.

"You think she's exceptional?"

"Yes," Sherlock said flatly. He paused, thinking that after all they had been through, this would be how it would end for them: a rushed goodbye and any chance to try – just to try - to be together extinguished. When it came to Molly Hooper, he would always disappoint. "And I would have been terrible for her."

"Oh, no doubt."

* * *

 

Molly saw the news in the morning headlines. News mogul shot and killed. Investigation underway. Her hands shook as she held the paper and she just knew. The papers and the Yard may have been in the dark as to what had happened, but she was able to add up the bits of the mystery. Being as close as she was to Sherlock made it that much easier. There were nights when he would show up at her flat just to seek her presence or to think in peace. She knew John was back at Baker Street and that things were not copasetic. She understood that Magnussen was the enemy. But beyond that, she was left grasping for straws and whatever she could discern from the news. Sherlock's silence over the last few days gave her more answers than anything else. Her texts wishing him and his family a Merry Christmas had received no response.

Therefore, it was not much of a surprise when Mycroft's sleek, statuesque assistant showed up at her door a day later with little more than a "Come with me" and she was whisked off in a government car.

The building they took her to was unobtrusive; the perfect place to hide Sherlock and cover up his crimes. From the main floor, she was escorted into a lift and up to the third floor. The doors opened onto a long hall that was occupied by a smattering of people in suits, many huddled and talking in hushed tones while looking through folders of papers. She felt horrendously out of place in her jeans and rust colored jumper, like a blaring headlight in the dark. No one paid her any mind as she was led down the hall. Mycroft was waiting next to a door, aloof as usual. He slid a key card through a reader on the side of the door as she approached and the door clicked open.

"You have ten minutes, Doctor Hooper," he said.

In a flash, she was through the door and into a room that looked to be little more than a glorified jail cell. Her eyes adjusted to the dimmer light and she immediately saw Sherlock, standing on the other side of the room with his back to the door. He turned his head slightly and caught her eye. Her mouth pulled tight at the look on his face and she felt her insides twist with worry.

"Was it you?" she asked quietly. His gaze dropped down and he shuffled a bit, turning towards her. "It's all over the papers. Magnussen's death."

"Mycroft has pushed for leniency in my punishment," he said by way of explanation, his voice showing emotions that she wasn't used to. "I'm going undercover. Six month mission in Eastern Europe."

She stared at him, her brow drawn tightly and her eyes steadily locked on his, trying to employ his methods of deduction to understand what he was really telling her. After a few moments, she blinked and her eyes moistened, her bottom lip trembling slightly.

"You're not coming back, are you?"

"No."

"He's sending you to die?" she cried, resentment flowing through her.

"He has no choice, Molly," Sherlock said, desperate for her to stop making the whole thing so emotional. It only made it worse. "He knows I'll rot in prison."

"You're his _brother_!"

"All the more reason to handle this quietly."

His honesty was a blow to the gut and she bit back the sob that suddenly bubbled up from inside her. His brow lowered in a pained expression at the sound of her choked control of her emotions. She was used to seeing his regret for hurting her, but this vulnerability was something entirely knew. Ignoring the beginnings of a protest on his lips, she crossed the small space and wrapped her arms around his waist, pressing her body as close to his as she could manage and laying her ear flush to his chest to hear the beat of his heart. He stiffened for a moment before relenting and returning the embrace, burying one hand in the hair at the base of her neck to encourage her closeness.

"What on earth were you doing?" she begged to know. "Are you ever going to tell me what this has all really been about?"

"It's not my story to tell," he said cryptically.

"Why did you do it?" she pressed again.

"What good am I if I cannot protect the people I care about?" he asked her, trying to give her the best answer he could offer. "What other purpose do I have?"

At those words, she pulled back and looked up at him. His eyes seemed empty; lost. Her throat began to burn from holding back the tears.

A knock at the door made her start and she felt panic well up in her chest, knowing their time was almost up. She slid her hands up to his shoulders and around the back of his neck, pulling him close again. Standing on tiptoe, she put her mouth as close to his ear as she could manage. She had a suspicion that the room was heavily monitored and she wanted the words to be just between them.

"You are loved, Sherlock," she whispered, her voice heavy. "Please know that. Please…"

"As are you, Molly," he whispered back.

The words had hardly left his mouth when the door was opened. He was far stronger than she managed to be, stepping out of her embrace and lifting his hands to cup either side of her face, pressing a lingering kiss on her forehead. A tear disobeyed her desire to remain strong and slipped down her cheek. She reached up to grasp one of his hands, holding it in place as she turned her head and placed a kiss into his palm. The salt of her tears mingled with the taste of his flesh on her lips. She felt her heart starting to splinter as he stepped away from her and gave her a sad smile.

She turned quickly before she broke down completely and walked out the door, stopping short when she heard it close behind her.

Her fingernails dug into the palms of her hands and she faltered a bit trying to take the first few steps away from the door. When she heard the tap of an umbrella tip on the floor in front of her, her face grew hot. She bit the insides of her cheeks as she lifted her eyes to look at Mycroft.

"Don't," she seethed when he opened his mouth, stopping him cold. His eyebrows flicked up briefly and he pursed his lips. "I don't want to hear it. I don't want to hear your excuses for why you can't manage to find any other solution than _this_ for the man who did what you and the entire British government could not."

"Kill a man in cold blood?"

"A blackmailer who drove a man to suicide and was ruining lives," Molly said. Her pride swelled a bit when Mycroft looked at her in surprise. "You think he doesn't tell me things? I know about the Smallwood case. I know why he killed himself. I'm not…I don't believe it was Sherlock's best choice. But maybe it was his only choice."

"He became too emotionally involved, Miss Hooper, despite my warnings, and he faced the unfortunate consequences of that. This isn't pleasant for me - "

She laughed unkindly at his words, wanting to throttle him for diminishing Sherlock's actions to an emotional overreaction. The details may not have been clear to her, but she knew self-sacrifice when she saw it in Sherlock Holmes. She'd been all too familiar with what he was willing to do for John once before.

Mycroft sighed and looked down at the ground.

"It may be difficult for the world at large to believe, but I do care about - "

"Do you? Because if you really cared, you wouldn't have spent his entire life belittling him and telling him that feelings are worthless. That _his_ feelings are worthless. You turned him into what he is and for some reason you're still trying to blame _him_ for the outcome. It must disappoint you so much that his final act was to bravely, selflessly, sacrifice himself for his friends, to see him care that much. To see him do the one thing you seem incapable of – saving the people he loves."

Tears were spilling over onto her cheeks and she was highly aware of every person in the hall looking at her, but she was unconcerned. Furious and devastated, she could only focus on the man whom she blamed for the injustice of Sherlock's fate – his whole fate.

She whipped around and walked away quickly, dragging the back of her hand under her eyes to wipe away the tears. Locking eyes with the man who had escorted her into the building, she pointed towards the lift.

"Take me out of here," she demanded.

* * *

 

Molly had dealt with of her fair share of detective work and the macabre while working with the Yard. Not much took her into truly dangerous territory, nothing that would have left her trembling for her own life.

But for the first time in her existence, she felt true terror, standing in Bart's and staring at the flashing message on the monitor of a computer.

_Did you miss me?_

It was a battle to know which reaction to fight off first – the loss of her lunch or the loss of bladder control. Her hands shook as they fell away from her lab coat and she felt her vision tunnel. She shook her head slightly and reached slowly into her coat pocket, fingers trembling violently as she navigated her phone with great effort.

_Did you miss me?_

"Molly?"

"Greg…are you seeing this?"

"Are you okay?"

He sounded worried. That couldn't be good.

"I'm at Bart's."

Was that an answer? She wasn't even sure, she just knew she had to be sure what she was seeing was real.

"Stay there, I'm on my way."

She clutched her phone and looked around the deserted path lab, slowly realizing that a populated area would be a safer location. The morgue certainly wasn't the place to be for crowd safety. She quickly made her way to the main entrance of the hospital, plastering herself against a wall in full view of a security camera and scanning the faces of everyone passing by, afraid that any second one of them would be the face of someone she had once trusted. Someone she had let into her home and let touch her…

_Don't think about it_.

If people were already confused by the strange feed of Moriarty's face occupying every screen in the building, the sight of Greg and about a dozen Yard officers rushing through the entrance must have set off a wave of rumors. Greg put a protective arm around her and they were out the door in seconds. After climbing into his car, he pulled out his phone.

"Yeah, I've got her," he said, then paused as the other person talked. "Right. On our way."

"Mycroft?"

"Yeah," he said. "He's sweeping your building. Posting a guard."

She swallowed the bile rising in her throat, feeling a wash of guilt for the way she had talked to the elder Holmes brother just a few days prior. Anger and despair had pushed words from her mouth that would not have surfaced under normal circumstances, even if she did believe them to be the truth to some extent.

It appeared that he understood that, or at least understood her importance to Sherlock. He was nowhere to be seen when they arrived at her building, but the presence of her assigned protection was very visible.

Greg stayed with her until she managed to stop trembling, telling her not to hesitate for one second to call him if she thought anything was wrong. He frowned at her for a moment before nodding and reaching into his jacket and removing a small, silver pistol.

"Load the bullets this way. Safety is here. Point, aim, shoot," he said firmly, showing her all the functions before handing it over to her and making her repeat the movements he had demonstrated. "Show me. Again."

When she was left alone in her flat, it seemed unnaturally quiet. She turned the telly on for comfort without really watching what was on. She picked through a frozen dinner before realizing she could not stomach food and shoved it back into the fridge. Toby trotted after her as she moved about the flat, curling around her legs when she stilled for too long in one spot. As the sky darkened outside, she retreated to her bedroom and the childish safety of her bed. She ached to hear from the one person she knew was never coming back.

Toby was a bit unique amongst cats, becoming her shadow and curling up right against her when he sensed she was distressed. So it was that night as she sat in bed, her legs tucked up and Toby purring against her stomach. She absently ran her fingers across his fur, staring at nothing in particular. It was late and she knew she should be getting some sleep, but she had left her contacts in, knowing any sort of rest was most likely out of the question. She wanted to be able to see, afraid to wake up and be at a disadvantage in case…

In case.

The nightlight from the living room spilled a dim yellow light into her bedroom, offering a naïve sense of security that she clung to. Every sputter of the motor of the fridge, every little creak of the walls made her jolt, her eyes shooting to the source. It was enough to work her up to thinking she was imagining things when she heard the rattle of her door lock. When she realized the sound was very real, she sucked in a breath, holding it to focus on listening. Her heart pounded and her hand slid slowly to her bedside table, reaching for the pistol. Mycroft had men posted around her building, she knew logically that she shouldn't be worried. But the sound of her front door opening and heavy footsteps approaching her room had her flinging Toby from her lap as she rose up on her knees, her hand half raised to aim the gun.

The silhouette that filled her door was the last one she expected to see.

"Oh, who in hell gave you a gun?"

Molly let out a relieved laugh at the sound of Sherlock's irritated tone.

"Greg," she said, checking to make sure the safety was on before putting the pistol back on the bedside table. "He thought I might need it."

"Get rid of it, you have half of MI6 stationed outside your flat," he said decisively.

"And yet you got in," she replied with a smile.

He blinked, brow furrowed, and she took the small pleasure of making Sherlock Holmes momentarily speechless. Her mirth dropped after a few moments, her eyes softening as she stared at him and it finally sank in that he was standing in her room and not on a plane flying towards certain death. The mood in the room changed, the knowledge that so many obstacles were suddenly removed descending on both of their minds. No fiancés, no relapses, no criminal networks. She felt the enormity of such freedom, the fear of openly facing feelings they had been burying for over a year.

The terror of Moriarty began to drift away, but she still understood it was the driving factor behind the swiftness of his steps as he crossed the room. Reaching the edge of her bed, he paused, placing a gentle hand along the side of her face as he studied her. She let him stare for a moment or two before lifting her arms around his shoulders, pulling him close. Kneeling on her mattress, Molly was nearly eyelevel with him and she took advantage of it, burying her face into the crook of his neck and smelling the cedar and bergamot of his cologne, the slight hint of tobacco lingering in the collar of his Belstaff. His skin was soft and warm, but she could just feel the sandpaper of stubble forming along his jaw.

Her mind drifted back nearly three years and she remembered the feel of that roughness on her skin, in places that still burned to be touched by him.

His hands slid firmly along her back, drifting under her loose hair and bunching the fabric of her sleep shirt.

"You were my first thought," he murmured against her ear. She hummed into his neck and closed her eyes, fighting the emotions welling up. "I will not let him anywhere near you."

"You really think he's alive?" she whispered.

"I don't know," he admitted slowly. "We had the body. Unless his network went deeper than even Mycroft could determine…"

Taking a deep breath that changed to more of a shudder, Molly contemplated a world containing a vengeful, living Moriarty. Sherlock pulled back in order to look her in the eye, one hand firmly on her waist and the other reaching up to cradle her face.

She saw the promise in his eyes that he wasn't willing to vocalize, the promise to keep her safe.

The desire to be closer to him suddenly gripped her and she leaned forward, feeling the warmth of his mouth for the first time in two years. He responded immediately, leaning into her and planting slow, soft kisses on her lips. But just as quickly as it started, he stopped, though still pressed against her and unwilling to let go.

"Molly, I don't…I…"

"I know," she said quickly. "Not the right time. I just wanted to…yeah, I wanted to."

They stared at each other for a few moments before Molly's eyebrows lifted, looking hopeful.

"Stay with me?" she asked.

"Of course."

She slipped off to the bathroom and took her contacts out, splashing water over her face to clear her mind. By the time she returned to the bedroom, Sherlock was waiting in her bed, looking far too wonderful in his undershirt. One quick glance to the chair in the corner holding his clothes confirmed her suspicion that, beneath the blankets, he was down to his pants.

She had to remind herself that they had already had one turmoil induced tryst and she would really rather prefer this new aspect of their relationship not start that way.

Joining him in the bed, she turned on her side to face him as he turned out the light. Sherlock reached out in the dark and found her hand, threading their fingers. With their hands joined, resting on the mattress between them, they fell asleep.


	5. Chapter 5

When the news of Moriarty's supposed return was delivered to Sherlock, he fully expected to be brought back to London and begin a war for the city. He hadn't quite expected the war inside himself in regards to Molly. The journey his mind took with her was convoluted to say the least. He'd found comfort in her that he had never found in anyone else. Not only physical comfort, but mental as well. Though the physical was nice. Very nice. But the things he had been certain she wanted, the date nights and meeting the family and every other trite aspect of a relationship, he maintained he couldn't give her. It wasn't in his makeup to conform to those social procedures. So he watched her experience those things with a 'normal' man and witnessed her slowly come to dislike all of it.

And it was in the midst of his relapse, his conflict with Magnussen, that he realized Molly was more like him than he'd ever given her credit for.

It was then that he realized he loved her, and had loved her for a long time. Took him forever and a day to recognize the feeling for what it was. Not so surprising when it had taken him an age to realize that she loved him. He hadn't known she felt so much for him all that time ago. He just hadn't known. Failed to see the depth behind the nervous smiles until a simple Christmas present revealed everything.

He wanted to hide it as much as he wanted to act on it when he went to her flat, pulled back to London from his mission and given a second chance. Moriarty had overlooked her once; he'd also used her, unbothered by manipulating her to get to Sherlock. There was no telling what he would be willing to do once he discovered how pivotal she had been in faking Sherlock's death – if he didn't already know. And should he find out how much she meant…

He stopped his body before it gained control over his mind and his ability to reason. Logic, control, cool removal from the chemical impulses of emotions – that would be what would save them. Unlike the last time, if he fell into the softness of her body and the relief it offered now, he could not walk away so easily. It would all be over for him.

Fortunately, there was business to attend to in the form of Moriarty. It was one of the only things that could pull him from her side at the moment.

He emerged from her flat and slipped into the car Mycroft had sent, weaving through the streets of London to the Watsons' home. He noted at least four cars parked on the street with agents keeping watch inside. Mycroft was taking things seriously. With their combined backgrounds, John and Mary could surely take care of themselves, but Sherlock was not leaving anything to chance, especially given Mary's current condition. It also helped to enforce the appearance of a normal home to his brother. As long as Mary kept her assassin gear well hidden, it should all be kept very quiet.

John was naturally hesitant to leave Mary alone and after a short argument it was agreed that she would join them in their meeting with Mycroft. Sherlock monitored their interactions carefully, tracking the progress of their healing. So far, John was faring better, but only because he had the benefit of being the one to do the forgiving. Trust was slowly being rebuilt, though; that was easy enough to read in their body language, in their tones.

Lestrade and Donovan were already gathered around the table in the basement meeting room. Papers and maps were spread out over the table, plastered to the walls. Agents were busy on computers, scrambling to track down a source for the feed. Sherlock cringed at their optimism.

"You won't find him that way," he announced to the room. Most ignored him, but Mycroft, Lestrade, and Donovan turned to look at the group walking in the door. "Really, Mycroft, you think it'll be as easy as finding an IP address?"

"It's protocol, Sherlock."

"It came through all screens in London. Just the city," Donovan said, pointing at the red marks on the map outlining where the event had occurred. "Lasted for exactly four minutes."

"All screens?" John repeated, walking up to the table with Mary at his elbow. Lestrade looked at Mary and put a hand on the back of a chair.

"Do you need a seat?" he offered.

"No, thank you, I'm fine," Mary smiled.

"Computer monitors and televisions," Mycroft told them. "But not mobiles."

"Cab monitors?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes," Mycroft said, his head tilting in curiosity. "How did you know?"

"He's done it before," Sherlock replied, thinking back to the beginnings of his orchestrated fall from grace. "Directly connected feeds. Far easier to hack into than wireless devices. Greater chance at being seen."

"Well hang on, are we saying he's definitely alive?" Lestrade asked incredulously. "Wasn't there a body?"

"He's a deceptive bastard," Donovan said with a quick glance around the room. "We all know the tricks he played last time. He's good at it, who's to say he didn't have one more up his sleeve?"

Sherlock glanced at Mycroft and quickly read his expression. The truth – far better in the long run.

"We had men transport the body to the morgue under high security," Mycroft explained.

"Kept it there until the fuss died down. It was supposed to be moved in the middle of the night," Sherlock added.

"Supposed to be?" Donovan repeated.

"Neither of us was there for the transport," Sherlock said with a pointed look at Mycroft who shifted uncomfortably at the hint of accusation in his voice. Much like Moriarty himself, Mycroft preferred not to be overly hands on when it came to his business. He'd trusted his underlings to take care of things properly.

"Wouldn't Molly Hooper have seen something," Lestrade said, trying to be helpful.

"No, she wasn't there that night," Sherlock said quickly. The DI and Donovan looked at him with curious expressions.

"She wasn't?" Donovan said, her interest piqued.

"I thought she was there faking your death records," Lestrade stated slowly.

"Well she wasn't," Sherlock snapped, walking around the table in irritation. "So now we have a body unaccounted for."

"The men who were in charge are being questioned as we speak," Mycroft assured them. One of the agents working at a computer called for him and he excused himself from the group.

"Is it possible he wasn't dead?" Mary asked carefully, looking at the information spread out on the table.

"Of course it's possible," Sherlock said. "Just not probable."

Just as he had done when Mycroft had first told him the news, he thought back to the moment on the roof. What did he have as evidence? The gun fired. The smell of powder and discharge. Blood. Brain matter. The quickly increasing pallor that went with rapid blood loss. What didn't he have? An actual visual of the exit wound. A bullet.

* * *

 

For all the dramatics that four minutes of hacked feed caused in their lives, surprisingly little came of it in the days and weeks that followed. In fact, absolutely nothing came of it, to Sherlock's great annoyance. The men who had been charged with disposing of Moriarty's body insisted it had been done right: inspected and cremated as ordered. The files existed and they had the word of the cremation attendant. It was all up to snuff.

He should have been grateful that things were quiet and the people who had been threatened before were safe. It was bothersome that he almost wished for something to happen. To Sherlock, quiet did not mean out of harm's way, only a delay of something to come. It left him completely on edge, unable to turn his focus fully on any other cases. Add to that John's increasing absence to look after Mary as she neared her due date and he felt incredibly restless.

He filled the time with simple cases in between checking in on the people around him. If anyone had been keeping tabs on his activity, they would have noticed he visited one person more than others.

He and Molly entered into an unconventional routine that skimmed the surface of an actual relationship. He visited the morgue at Bart's no less than three times a week, each time asking for body parts to take home and lingering just long enough to assess her surroundings. When he had a case on, he nosed his way into her flat at its conclusion. With no cases, the visits increased to the point that Mrs. Hudson began to ask where he was always off to.

It was easy with Molly, as he always knew it would be. He would bring takeaway for dinner and she let him sleep late in the mornings. She was perfectly content with silence when he needed it and more than happy to discuss cases and corpses when the mood struck. Their day solving cases together over a year ago should have been the biggest clue to him – they moved in perfect tandem with each other. The only thing missing was sex and even with that she had the patience of a saint.

Abstaining, he could focus and protect them. She understood that.

When nearly two months passed and London life ticked along as usual, unencumbered by anything more than typical criminal activity, Sherlock began to wonder if they'd all been had. Moriarty had not been one to tease and disappear. He had made sure Sherlock was always aware of his existence. There was a flaw in the pattern, something that didn't add up.

The most excitement he faced was the night he received the text from John letting him know that Mary had gone into labor. He froze at first, panicked at the thought that it was actually happening.

_What do I do? –SH_

_Come to the hospital if you want, but at this point it's just going to be waiting_

He met John in the waiting room and stood stock still while his friend paced around with a nervous smile on his face. Delirious, happy, and scared. He hadn't seen John like that since the night of the wedding.

"Is she still hell bent on going without drugs?" Sherlock asked.

"You know she is," John said, running his hands anxiously over the tops of his thighs and taking a deep breath. "Her doctor says it could be a while. You don't have to stay. Glad you're here, of course, very glad, but don't feel obligated."

"Calm down, John. It's all going to be fine," Sherlock said with a slight smile. "She's very healthy, strong. You've chosen an ideal hospital. Her doctor has far too much interest in her own appearance, trying to make up for being a homely child, but it doesn't seem to have an impact on her practice."

John grinned at him, planting his hands on his hips. Centered again, heart rate lowered from just moments ago. Sherlock's smile increased and he held out a hand.

"Congratulations, John," he said sincerely.

Reaching out to take his hand, John immediately pulled Sherlock in for a hug, holding on tightly. Though far more used to it than he ever had been, it still came as a slight shock to be shown that sort of affection. He was starting to understand the needs behind it – confirmation of their friendship, support, sharing in celebratory moments. He might not subscribe to it, but he understood it.

John released him and clapped him on the shoulder one more time before backing towards Mary's room.

"I'll let you know as soon as she arrives," he promised happily.

Sherlock nodded and watched him disappear around the corner. He stood in the cheerful waiting room for a few moments, gradually feeling out of place in his dark coat and clothes. Contemplating how long he would last waiting for news in the maternity ward, he finally decided to leave. He walked out into the bitter February night and hailed a cab, not even thinking twice before giving the driver Molly's address.

The moment she opened the door he knew he'd woken her. Her hair was coming loose from a haphazard ponytail and her eyes looked bleary, blinking up at him. She was wearing typically mismatched pyjamas – Kelly green yoga pants and an oversized pink thermal shirt with a small pattern of rosettes and leaves.

"Sherlock, everything alright?" she asked, trying to wake up and focus.

"Mary's gone into labor," he stated. She perked up immediately.

"What? That's – oh my god, that's fantastic," she gushed. "What the hell are you doing here, why aren't you at the hospital?"

"It's their moment, not mine," he said without any sort of resentment.

In a series of movements that he had grown extremely accustomed to, Molly stepped to the side and opened the door wider, smiled, and tilted her head towards the inside of her flat in invitation. His heart swelled and he walked into the space that had become as comforting as his own home. Shedding his coat, he made a beeline for his second favorite spot – the large, soft blue sofa that was the antithesis of all the furniture in 221B. Molly closed the door and trailed after him, taking her usual spot at one end of the sofa while he took the other, kicking his shoes off before reclining and stretching his legs out towards her. She tucked her legs up and folded them, leaning against the arm of the sofa to face him, and he gently pressed the bottoms of his feet against her shins. As he expected, her hands came to rest on the tops of his feet, her fingers tracing the prominent bone structure through his socks. He could practically see her mind reciting the different bones and muscles as her fingers moved, her eyes gazing off into nothing.

That was the reason he enjoyed sitting as they did. She would always let him curl against her in a more intimate manner if he wished (and he often did in her bed), but in this spot he preferred to face her, to see her. Molly had become very good at adjusting the tone in her voice, disguising her true thoughts. If he wasn't able to see her, he was often left unsure of what she really felt.

"What has you worried, Sherlock?" she asked.

"Not worried," he said, tucking his chin down. When he glanced up he was met with a look that clearly said 'You can't fool me.' He sighed. "Babies. They change things. More than marriage, wouldn't you say?"

Her brow drew down and she thoughtfully bit her bottom lip, preparing her answer. Processing and planning her word as always.

"They can, yes," she finally told him. "It changes people's priorities. You have another life you're responsible for that needs you to be so selfless."

Sherlock hummed his agreement, glad that Molly was validating what he had already concluded. She tilted her head and looked at him in concern. Far from annoying him, the look was one he paid attention to, waiting for her to speak.

"John will always be in your life," she said simply. He was a little surprised when she suddenly grinned at him. "Do you honestly think Mary won't want to kick him out of the house to get some peace and quiet every once in a while? She'll be shoving him off on you more often than you think."

"That sounds far too much like personal experience, Molly Hooper," Sherlock accused. Molly giggled lightly, leaning into the back of the couch and settling comfortably as she regarded him.

"I enjoy your company, Sherlock," she said. "But you can sometimes be a…large presence."

The corner of his mouth quirked up at her description of him and he shoved gently at her legs. She smiled back and blinked hazily at him before her eyes drooped closed. He stared at her for a moment, feeling the usual warmth and pleasantness that came with being in her company settle over him. Slightly disturbing, but not anything he wished to change. He realized he was becoming quite reliant on Molly, letting the circumstances of their mutual availability morph into a relationship he had never anticipated when he walked into her bedroom three long years before. Three years and he was still unsure with her in a way he never was with anyone else.

"Do you want children, Molly?" The question slipped quickly from his mouth, curiosity driving him.

She cracked her eyes open slightly and looked at him.

"Sometimes," she replied, quietly. "I used to think I wanted the whole package – husband, house, babies. I thought that's where happiness came from."

"And now?" he pressed when she stopped talking. She shrugged, closing her eyes again and settling further into the cushions of the sofa.

"Not so sure anymore," she said with a tone of finality.

Sherlock let her drift off, content to rest with her. A little before two in the morning his phone chimed and he looked at the text from John.

_Joanna Natalie Watson. Seven pounds, two ounces. Come meet your goddaughter :)_

The uncertainty he had been feeling dissipated and his mouth turned up in a smile. Gently pulling his legs away from Molly, he stood up from the sofa and walked over to her. He pulled the quilt from the back of the sofa and placed it over her as he leaned down to whisper in her ear.

"Healthy baby girl," he told her, placing a soft kiss against her temple. "I'll send them your good wishes. Sleep well, Molly."

She shifted slightly and hummed.

"Mmkay," she mumbled. "Bye, Sherlock. Love you."

His throat constricted and he halted. Love. It shouldn't have left him so stricken to hear, he'd known for a long time how she felt. Hell, he'd felt the same way for months. But to hear it out loud, so calmly, so naturally…

He quietly stepped away from her and let himself out of the flat. Barely conscious of how he managed to get to the hospital, he suddenly found himself in front of the entrance and walked purposefully inside. The maternity ward was no less active, but nighttime had subdued the energy of the people present. He found Mary's room quickly and hesitantly stepped inside. The sight that greeted him was one worthy of an advertisement for a happy family. Mary looked slightly worse for wear, but her expression was one of pure love as she looked down at the bundle of swaddling cloth and newborn baby in her arms. John sat next to her on the bed, one arm around her shoulders, the same look on his face as he gazed down at his daughter.

Sherlock cleared his throat slightly and they both looked up at him. John smiled and motioned him over. Mary adjusted her arms as he approached and held the baby so that he would have a good view. Pink, wrinkled face and two little hands that were making grasping gestures at the air. John's nose and mouth, quite clearly. Mary's heart-shaped face, inasmuch as was visible on a newborn. Eyes tightly shut.

He'd never been much for fussing over babies and the Watsons' little girl was hardly an exception. But he was able to register the immense pride and affection she caused and dammit all if it wasn't catching.

"She's perfect," he told them warmly. "Well done."

John laughed at the compliment, slipping his arm from around Mary and standing up.

"Now that this one's here, I can go fetch those chocolate biscuits for you," he said, kissing Mary on the forehead before looking at Sherlock with a smile. "It's all she's wanted since it was over."

They all shared a small laugh and John left the room. Sherlock glanced back at Mary.

"He's afraid to leave my side," she explained, shifting her hold on the baby to a more comfortable position. "Proud, protective father."

"I wouldn't expect any less," Sherlock replied, not at all surprised to hear of John's immediate loyalty.

Mary nodded and looked down. He sensed something shift in her energy.

"I never did properly thank you," she started haltingly, sniffing back the start of tears. Emotions and hormones flooding her body, he realized, and he considered stopping her to spare her the added feelings. "It's because of you that I have any of this at all."

"Not true," he corrected. "You had John well before I came back. You would have been spared a lot of hardship without me."

"It's better with the truth out," she said quickly. "You spared me from a fate far worse than a pissed off husband. And I'm very grateful for that, Sherlock."

He could think of nothing else to do other than offer her a sincere smile. He was used to the accolades and thank you's from the cases he solved, but Mary's heartfelt gratitude struck a different chord.

They both checked their emotions as they heard John come back into the room, a plate of biscuits in his hand and the same proud grin on his face.

"Can't stop smiling," he said. "Tried, but nothing for it, seems to be stuck there."

"Try harder, it's nauseating," Sherlock drawled teasingly.

"It really is, it's sickening," Mary joined in with a wrinkle in her nose before she smiled at her husband and handed the baby over to him, reaching gratefully for the biscuits.

 

* * *

Two days later, the Watsons were settled at home and opened their house for an afternoon of visitors to see the baby. Molly had asked Sherlock to join her once she had finished her shift at Bart's, eager to see the new family. He had agreed, but not without hesitation. The nagging little voice in his head that still sounded suspiciously like John became louder, accusing him of avoiding her. They shared a quiet cab ride to the house and if she sensed anything amiss she did not say a word. Not that he would have had any answers for her if she had confronted him.

He loved her. It made her a target. Pushing it down was the sensible thing to do in light of Moriarty. She loved him and made it very clear in a variety of ways. It made it harder to conceal his own feelings, then he was back to the beginning trying to avoid making her a target.

Despite his efforts to maintain a neutral demeanor, he was officially on edge by the time they arrived at John and Mary's. The door was halfway open with a sign that read 'Please come in!' in cheerful handwriting and they let themselves in. John and Mary greeted them in the lounge, all smiles and hugs.

"She's gorgeous," Molly said with a little sigh as she looked at Joanna.

"She looks just like a little Watson," Mary cooed with a loving smile.

Sherlock held back an eye roll and turned to inspect the pictures on the mantle.

"She's got her mother's eyes, though, don't you think, Molly?" John added.

"She's a newborn infant, she looks like every other newborn there ever was -" Sherlock's comment stopped short when he turned and saw that the baby had been placed in Molly's arms. She was swaying gently with the little bundle, smiling down into Joanna's pink face with a look of pure adoration. She was, in short, a natural. He pretended not to understand why the sight sent a bit of heat through his neck.

"I do hope you changed from your work clothes before coming here, Molly."

Judging by the three aghast faces staring at him, those were indeed a poor choice of words for the moment. Attempting to play it off as a joke, Sherlock gave a tight lipped smile and crossed the room to sit in John's armchair while the others continued to fawn over the newborn. After several minutes, the door opened and a few of the nurses from John's practice were ushered in, bearing Tupperware filled with chicken dinners and soups and deserts. The group went into the kitchen and suddenly he was alone with Molly and a baby. She made her way over to him, still subconsciously rocking back and forth slightly and patting Joanna's tiny form gently. The smile she was trying to hold back was far too obvious.

"Why do they bring food?" he asked. "Did the Watsons suddenly become incapable of cooking?"

"Yes, actually," Molly said. "Between feedings and changings and being exhausted…cooking is like climbing Mt. Everest for new parents."

He narrowed his eyes at her, letting her know exactly what he thought of that analogy. Molly let a puff of air out of her nose, a humoring laugh that told him she was hardly affected by his judgment. Looking down at his shoes, he conceded the round of silent sparring to her.

"Do you want to hold her?"

His eyes shot up to hers.

"What for?"

"Who put the wind up your pants today?" she asked with an accusatory look.

Choosing not to answer, he looked moodily away from the sight of her cradling the infant, noting that the child had fallen asleep in her arms. Molly started to murmur silly little things to her as she slept and he pretended not to listen until the others came back into the room. Mary happily took her child back while John plopped down into the armchair opposite Sherlock.

"Come up and see the nursery," Mary said to the ladies in the room. "John did a wonderful job."

Molly glanced at Sherlock and shrugged self-consciously as she followed the group, not used to being a part of this womanly world. He considered how the two women gravitated towards the social norms of the circumstances, but neither completely fit the roles. Mary, so happy to have a semblance of a normal life after years of living on the fringe of the law. Molly, questioning her long held desires for the suburban dream. With John and himself in the picture, it would never be completely ordinary.

When they had been left alone, he looked over at John. His friend ran a tired hand over his face and shook his head, working some energy back into his system.

"You may have been good practice, but at least you let me sleep through most nights," John said, only half teasing.

Sherlock's lip quirked up and he gave a small huff of laughter. He drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair, waiting for John to let out whatever was clearly on his mind.

"What's going on with you two?"

"You two who?" Sherlock shot back. John narrowed his gaze on him.

"You know exactly who, don't play dumb," he said firmly. "There are about a hundred reasons why you don't deserve that woman, but for some reason she is still with you to the bitter end. So…what's been happening?"

Sherlock's eyebrows shot up and he looked around in mock confusion.

"I'm sorry, I think you have me confused with someone who does relationships," he said irritably.

"Don't you?" John challenged, chin tilting down and eyebrows rising.

"Janine hardly counts -"

"Not Janine, you berk," John huffed, pointing firmly in the direction his wife had gone. "Mary told me you used to use Molly's spare room as a bolt hole."

"And?"

"Molly doesn't have a spare room, Sherlock," John said with a satisfied smirk. "I've been there."

Sherlock felt a flash of heat in his neck – again. The voice in his head had decided to come to life. No matter the image he endeavored to present, there was no way to spin the information in his favor. He either admitted to sharing her bed, or he looked like a complete arse for appearing to take over her bedroom and forcing her onto the sofa.

"Mycroft didn't even know you went there to hide out," John emphasized with a pointed look. " _Mycroft._ "

"All right, fine, yes, I use her place from time to time," Sherlock said quickly.

"Oh, so you still go there?"

"What?"

"You said use. Not used," John said with an utterly smug smile. "Certainly explains why you disappear from Baker Street for entire nights, according to Mrs. Hudson."

"When did you trade places with a thirteen year old schoolgirl, has it really been so long since we've seen each other?" Sherlock quipped crossly, affecting a cheerful, light voice as he went on. "Ooh, did you hold hands and snog at the cinema? Sneaked into her bedroom when her mum wasn't looking? Rubbish."

His attempt to annoy John failed spectacularly as he only appeared increasingly entertained by the whole thing. A few moments passed while John looked at him with a ridiculous grin plastered on his face.

"Well," he said curiously. "Did you?"

"Oh shut up, you've obviously lost your mind since your wife had a baby."

"I am going to take your avoidance on the matter to be a confirmation," John decided, standing up. "Now if you don't mind, I am going to go help my lovely wife with our baby girl for a moment so she can show off my shoddy craftsmanship. Keep yourself entertained, yeah?"

Sherlock watched him walk out of the room and found his limbs tingling with irritation. He needed a distraction – if only there was a good murder on.


	6. Chapter 6

It was Molly who pointed out that Scotland Yard had not sought Sherlock's help on any cases since the New Year. He'd been so preoccupied with Moriarty and the impending birth of baby Watson that he hadn't even noticed that all of his cases were individuals seeking his personal help. Mycroft had been at the helm of the investigation into Moriarty's high jacking of the airwaves and had gathered the original players who knew Moriarty's methods and patterns. Lestrade and Donovan had been brought in to aid the government.

But as for Lestrade and Donovan calling for his help – well, they hadn't.

For a full two months after Joanna's birth, he carefully chose local cases, no higher than a five, and always planned them around the baby's sleep schedule. The child was surprisingly consistent, only varying a few times a week, allowing John to accompany him quite frequently. There were times when they would return to the Watson's home, still puzzling out aspects of a case, only to have Mary join in and help them solve it, all while changing a nappy or giving Joanna her bath. Those days ended with John gazing at his wife with a fierce look in his eyes and Sherlock excusing himself to go tell his client the good news. He wasn't an idiot – he knew John was falling in love with Mary on a whole new level.

Then he would go home and not think about Molly.

He wouldn't think about her while he stared at the boring food options in his fridge, he didn't think about her as he checked the deterioration of teeth samples she'd given him, he didn't think about her when he shucked off his clothes and collapsed naked into bed, and he certainly didn't think about her when he gave in to his more primal needs in the dark of his room. It wasn't her name he groaned into the crook of his arm, wishing it was her he was feeling and not his own hand.

He did everything he could not to think of that as he sat next to her in the lab during her morning shift, studiously reviewing the results of a blood test from a case he really only took on because it meant going to Bart's. She had her hair wound in a low bun at the base of her head, reminding him of a Russian ballerina. He filed the image away in his mind.

Low bun hairstyle effect: lovely.

New perfume – white ginger – effect: distracting.

His phone chimed, freeing him from the torture.

_Got a case for you. – Lestrade_

"Oh," Molly said, somewhat surprised, as she read over his shoulder.

"'Oh' what?" Sherlock questioned, typing off a rapid fire text to find out where he was to meet the DI.

"Well, it's just been a while," she told him, refocusing her attention on cleaning the equipment she had been using earlier. Sherlock froze, his fingers poised over his phone. He calculated the exact amount of time that had passed since he'd last received a request for help from Lestrade and he didn't like the answer he came up with, nor did he like how deliberately mum Molly was being on the subject.

"You think they've been avoiding me," he said, looking to her. Her hands paused in the middle of wiping down a beaker. He lowered his voice as he went on. "For what purpose, Molly? They don't know what happened at Appledore."

"No," she replied carefully, setting the glass down on the counter. "But Mycroft does. There are bound to be files, records. Maybe he just…suggested that Scotland Yard use a different avenue until things…calmed down."

"Meaning not consulting a murderer on their cases for fear of the backlash it might cause," he bit out.

Molly's head reared back a little at the words, her mouth opening but no words coming out. He studied her expression, knowing that she had been about to defend him, to argue that a murderer was not what he was. Not for the first time, he wondered how she could see him so clearly and still manage to love him as she did.

"I'm sure it was to protect you," she said, her mouth pulling into a thin line. "Keeping their distance would avoid arousing suspicion about you. Don't you think?"

He hated it when she was smarter than he was, twisting his own actions around on him.

Lestrade gave him a location on the west side of London by the Thames and he was out the door before he could give the conversation further contemplation. Shooting off a quick text to John, he hopped into a cab and was on his way to the scene of the crime. He arrived on the banks of the river, hopping out of the cab to see John waiting for him just on the other side of the yellow police tape. The doctor was shifting slightly, his hands tucked under his armpits. Sherlock gave him a quick smile as he ducked under the tape and strode towards the group clustered at the edge of the river, heedless of the slick, muddy mix of river sediment, patches of icy water, and cobblestones. John followed him, stepping much more cautiously.

"This better be worth leaving my warm home, Sherlock," he said quickly.

"Oh don't be so dramatic John, it's not that cold."

John glanced at the sporadic patches of ice hugging the banks of the river and grumbled his disagreement.

Officers were gathered around a small metal freezer, dragged from the water and settled on the muddy bank. Sherlock quickly assessed the immediate details – dented corners and scrapes along the side indicated rough handling, possibly insecure transport, black paint present in several of the larger scrapes meant it had come in contact with more than just the rugged outdoors it had been intended for. The lid was lifted and his nose wrinkled slightly as the contents came into sight. John let out a low whistle beside him.

Inside of the freezer was an intriguing combination of ice and human remains. Specifically, the body of a female, likely in her late thirties, from what he could see through the cloudy, frozen water. The ice was already starting to melt away, gathering in small pools in the confines of the box.

"Couple of passersby saw the freezer, called the police to report it," Lestrade explained.

"Drowned?" John asked, peering into the chest.

"Not likely," Donovan said, pointing at a spot near the victim's head. There was a small, barely visible cloud of pink color in the ice. "There's indication of blood loss. She was placed in here after she was killed, or while injured and unconscious."

"Poor thing probably froze over in the night," John said sadly.

"Frozen solid. It'll make placing time of death extremely difficult," Lestrade added.

"It will," Sherlock agreed before pulling a face. "If everyone stayed at your level of investigative skills. The freezer has been here less than two hours, which means she was killed elsewhere, frozen, and then deposited. Take it to Bart's, preserve the water as it melts. As for time of death, that will no doubt present itself once the body has thawed and all the evidence collected."

"Wait, hang on, how do you know she froze elsewhere? It was below zero last night," Lestrade said.

Sherlock huffed and stalked over the edge of the water.

"Freezing, yes, but not enough to do _that_ ," he said with a gesture at the solid mass of ice in the freezer. "The river ice?" He lifted one foot and brought his heel down on the ice which easily gave way and revealed a thin layer. "Any water submerged would equalize with the temperature of the river and mimic the behavior of that body of water. Ergo, she did not freeze in the river. On the contrary, she started to melt here."

He walked back to the group and past them.

"And what exactly is saving the water going to tell us?" Sally shot after him.

"Everything," Sherlock said cryptically.

* * *

 

Normally, Molly would have been more than a little put out at the prospect of staying past the end of her shift waiting for ice to melt, but she had to admit that the case Sherlock had brought into the morgue was appealing. She hadn't had this sort of task ahead of her in a long time. It was actually sort of exciting, offering a bit of variation to her day.

Sherlock was virtually bouncing off the walls waiting for everything to be ready for analysis. The moment the water had been collected and the woman's clothes removed, he took off for the lab while she began the painstaking process of thawing the body and beginning the postmortem. Over the years, she'd become well accustomed to separating herself from the nature of her work, but there were always a few moment when she first laid a body out where she would wonder about the person. A few moments of curiosity about the life that had been lost.

Molly sighed and looked away from the woman's face, turning her attention to her work.

The ice victim was in her forties, with shoulder length blonde hair and an athletic build. The cause of death was easy enough to determine – trauma to the back of the head with a blunt object, causing hemorrhaging in the brain and blood loss. The body was well preserved and she concluded that it must have been frozen within hours of death. She was able to get a decent fingerprint and hoped that running it in combination with a DNA test would give them an identity in a few days.

When she had finished with the postmortem, exhausted and eyes stained from focusing for so long, she joined Sherlock in the lab to relay the information. He replied with a grunt, completed concentrated on a petri dish of organic matter under his microscope. Several dishes waited on the table and Molly decided to make herself useful, grabbing one to analyze. She took in the yellowish-brown strands of vegetation and the bodies of water insects.

"Macroinvertebrates?" she mumbled.

"Lots of them," Sherlock told her. "As well as seed pods and pollen from sensitive plant species. She was most certainly not killed in London or anywhere near a city. Most telling is the presence of the netted carpet moth - _Eustroma reticulatum_ – a rare species recently reintroduced in the Lake District near Keswick. That is where she died."

"Keswick? Are you sure?"

He leaned away from his scope and quickly reached for his phone, typing rapidly. She watched him absorb the information on his screen, his eyes igniting with excitement. Tossing the phone on the counter with a clatter, he leaned forward again and looked into the scope with renewed interest.

"What is your opinion on banshees?" he asked suddenly.

Molly blinked in surprise and looked at him, trying to hold back a smile.

"My opinion?" she asked.

"Mm."

"Well, they're fairy stories," she said, wrinkling her nose. "Gaelic legends meant to dramatize death."

"Not exactly what I was going for."

"Do you mean, do I believe in them?" she asked with a laugh. "No, of course I don't."

"Four people have been reported missing near Keswick in the last six months," Sherlock said quickly, holding his phone up for her to see. "The most recent, June Phillips, was reported last week."

Molly looked at his phone and the confusion she felt from his swiftly shifting topics disappeared.

"That's our victim," she said.

"Clearly."

"And what's this to do with banshees?" she asked, unsure. Sherlock sighed and straightened the cuffs of his suit.

"Local lore," he explained. "One or two people say they heard unnatural wailing the nights the victims disappeared and suddenly it's popping up in every news article."

"So not your theory of choice, then?" she said with a smirk.

He gave her a withering look before standing up.

"Where's John?" he demanded, looking around the room.

"He left hours ago," Molly told him. "Sent me a text in case you weren't listening. Mary wasn't feeling well and spiked a fever. He went home to take care of her."

"Unfortunate," he muttered, narrowing his eyes and glancing about the room. "I could have used his help on this one."

Molly hummed, her attention turning back to the sample under the microscope. After a few moments, she noticed that Sherlock had gone silent. Glancing up, she found him looking at her with a conflicted expression.

"You're fairly useful at a crime scene," he said bluntly.

"Wow, thanks for that," she replied, pulling a face.

"Really," Sherlock said sincerely, his hands going to his hips as he shifted slightly on the balls of his feet. "Keswick's half a day's drive, granted, plus the time it would take to investigate, you'd need to take a few days off of work - "

"Hold on," she interrupted, holding her hand up to stop him. "I haven't even said I'll go."

Sherlock looked at her impatiently, expectantly, and for a moment she considered telling him no just so he wouldn't look so smug waiting for her to agree to his plans. But who was she kidding? It sounded fun and they'd already proved to work well together on investigations once before. She could hardly argue with the idea of spending a few days in the Lake District, soaking up a little serenity amidst a murder inquiry.

"Fine, I'll go with you," she relented, pulling the purple gloves from her hands with a snap. "But if you call me John while we're working together one more time, you'll be walking funny for a week."

Later that night, she received a text from John while she was packing.

_Sherlock is honest to God taking you on a case?_

_Yes_ , was her reply.

_Tell him he's doing a marvelous job feigning disinterest_.

* * *

 

The last time Molly had been in the Lake District was during Uni. A group of her friends had rented a cottage and they'd made the most of being twenty years old with a holiday free from pre-med classes and the crushing work that came with them. They had done a fine job of pretending to be older than they were, feeling classy as possible taking walks in the charming town center and ending their evenings drinking too much cheap wine. It was the first time she'd ever spent the night with a guy in a real, private bedroom and not her shared flat or the backseat of a car. Oh to be young and easily impressed.

Keswick was a beautiful little town, tucked right next to Derwentwater, all small country lanes, hedgerows, and a hodgepodge of houses and shops. The hills and mountains that surrounded the town popped into view on all sides, some of the highest peaks still retaining the last snowfall of winter. The air was extremely fresh and brisk, filling Molly's nose in a way that left her almost giddy when they stepped out of the car. Sherlock had parked in front of a guest house that looked appropriately quaint with a grey brick façade, white and turquoise paint on the trim, and a veritable waterfall of spring flowers in every window box.

Inside, the house smelled like a bakery. The foyer and sitting room were elegantly decorated, but not overly stuffy or old-fashioned. A girl in her mid-twenties stood at the check-in counter, leaning on the desk and turning the pages of a magazine. Her long black hair spilled over one shoulder and she was absently twirling the ends of it with one hand.

Sherlock cleared his throat expectantly.

"Oh, sorry!" the girl said, quickly shoving the magazine away. "You must be the Holmes reservation. Only ones we were expecting today." She began typing at the computer with one hand while reaching into a drawer and pulling out two room keys with the other, her dark eyes looking over their information attentively. "You'll be on the third floor, two rooms at the end of the hall – wonderful views. Breakfast is at seven every morning in the lounge, my mum makes everything, you'll think you've died and gone to heaven it's so good. I'm Chitra, if you need anything, and my mum and dad will be around most of the time as well. D'you need any brochures for the area? We've got a lovely guide for the trails around the lake."

Molly honestly couldn't tell if it was Sherlock's evolving patience with other human beings or the fact that Chitra talked a mile a minute, but he stood rooted to the spot looking at the girl with uncertainty until she finished speaking before he made it clear they were there for business.

"Does it have to do with the people who have disappeared?" Chitra asked in a dramatic whisper, leaning forward. "From the hills?"

Sherlock took the keys she had placed on the counter and gave her a humoring smile before picking up both his and Molly's bags to take them upstairs. Molly offered the girl a quick thank you before trotting along after him.


	7. Chapter 7

The downside to investigating a murder in a small town was that news of their presence in Keswick spread by breakfast the next morning. The locals were out on their stoops and at their garden gates watching Sherlock and Molly walk through town, some of them bothering to whisper behind their hands as opposed to gawking outright. Sherlock largely ignored them, walking briskly towards the café in which they had arranged to meet June Phillips' husband. Eric Phillips had stayed in Keswick since his wife's disappearance, refusing to leave the area until he knew what had happened. Sherlock spotted him right off, pacing in front of the café with a gaunt face and days old clothes. His greying hair looked unwashed and he had a death grip on his mobile, no doubt afraid to put the device down in case someone called with information.

"Mr. Holmes," Eric called out, hovering on the edge of the pavement. "Oh thank God. Thank God. They told me you would be able to find out who did this to…who…"

"Sit down, please, Mr. Phillips," Sherlock said, cutting off the man's pleading and gesturing to a small table on the pavement. He waited for Molly to settle herself in a chair near the building before sitting down. "It is rare that I do not find the truth behind a case, but I do feel it's fair to warn you that it does happen as you seem to have already and inadvisably put your full faith in my abilities." Eric stared at him slightly dumbstruck, but nodded his understanding. "Let's begin, then, shall we? Tell me about the night your wife disappeared."

"I don't…I don't know if I can tell it again," Eric said with a sniffle. He looked at Molly sadly and Sherlock watched him carefully, intrigued that he would automatically try to appeal to the obviously more sympathetic of the duo. "Can't you just read the police reports?"

"If I wanted a bland, unhelpful report written by an individual who was already planning which pub they were heading to after their shift, yes, I could. I don't want that. I want your version of events," Sherlock said peevishly. Molly glanced at him before looking back at Eric, her face resolutely in support of his reasoning.

"We, um…we came out here on holiday," Eric started. "June always wanted to hike in these hills. We loved hiking together, been doing it for years. Stayed one night in a hotel here, picked up a few last minute items in the outdoors shop…food, gear, a fire permit…The owner gave us some tips for the area. Headed out early in the morning and reached our first campsite by the afternoon. There was nothing strange, it was all as we'd done it a hundred times before." He paused and took a deep, shaking breath, worrying his bottom lip. "Set up camp. Went to sleep that night. And when I woke up the next morning…she…she was just gone."

Sherlock nodded, absorbing the information.

"And then what?" he asked.

Eric looked at him blankly.

"I went to the police," he said. "Obviously, I went right to the police."

"You didn't look around? Wait to see if she had gone on a stroll? You just packed up your things and walked right back down the mountain?"

"Of course I looked around!" Eric cried, looking alive for the first time since they'd sat down. "I shouted for her, looked for any sign… _any_ sign. I didn't even bother breaking camp, I just took off."

"Your things are still up there?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes. I mean no, the police brought everything down after they investigated…really, who cares about a bit of camping equipment when your wife of eighteen years…it doesn't even matter," Eric told him, putting a hand over his mouth.

"I'm sorry to ask this," Molly spoke up timidly, her expression one of extreme curiosity. "But you didn't hear anything? Not even when she left the tent?"

"It was a long hike up," Eric told her, his face falling. "I sleep like a rock on a normal night. You can imagine how it would be after nearly eight miles."

"Which outdoors shop did you go to?" Sherlock inquired, already done with the conversation and most everything Eric had to offer.

"Wildlands," Eric said. "Just down the road a ways."

"Fantastic," Sherlock said, jumping up from his seat and beckoning for Molly to follow. He heard the scraping of Eric's chair on the pavement as they started to walk away.

"Will you find whoever did this, Mr. Holmes?"

"Every effort, Mr. Phillips," he tossed over his shoulder, pulling out his phone to find the exact address of Wildlands outdoor shop. He could hear Molly's quick footsteps trying to keep up with his pace.

"I don't quite understand," she said, her voice lowered so as not to be overheard. "How do you not hear someone leave a tent in the middle of the night? We went camping when I was a kid, the sound of the zipper opening is just about the loudest thing in the world."

"As he said – heavy sleeper," Sherlock reiterated. "Or he heard her and he's lying. Or he was not in the tent himself and he's lying."

"Maybe drugged?"

"Unlikely. At any rate, the real piece of interest was his eyes," Sherlock told her, a small smile appearing on his face. "Bloodshot and puffy, but not from crying. He didn't even well up talking about her. All cried out? Mm, more likely that he's sleep deprived and frightened."

"Frightened of what?" Molly asked.

_Where to start?_ Sherlock thought as they reached the glass doors of Wildlands. What he'd read in Eric Phillips amounted to a man who was tired of doing the same thing day in and day out for nearly twenty years. He'd pretended well enough to enjoy the life he had, but the excitement was gone. It was the reason he looked so incredibly distraught over the events of the last week – his body was not used to the spike in adrenaline and emotions. He could have been terrified of the sudden freedom the death of his wife meant and the horrible guilt associated with feeling a weight lift. Possibly frightened that he would be implicated in something. Or he could very well be guilty of murder and scared witless.

Sherlock held the door for Molly as they entered the shop. It was fairly large given the general quaintness of the rest of the town. Racks and shelves of equipment and clothing for every conceivable outdoor activity filled the space and left the air with a general scent of leather and canvas. A strapping man wearing jeans and a fleece jumper stood at the counter folding shirts. He turned and smiled when he heard Sherlock and Molly enter.

"Hello! How can I help you two today?"

"Are you the one giving the expert advice to couples looking for a hiking holiday?" Sherlock asked straightaway. "Eric and June Phillips? Geoffrey and Rene Wormwood? Alfred and Esperanza Cruz? Need I go on?"

The man stopped in his tracks and his smiled dropped immediately. The natural bravado that came with being tall and strong seemed to disappear from his demeanor.

"You must be the detective from London," he said flatly.

"Consulting. Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock said, offering his hand. The man took it hesitantly, but gave a firm handshake. Sherlock nodded towards Molly. "My colleague, Molly Hooper."

"Robert Abernathy," the man said as he shook Molly's hand.

"And did you know, Robert, that your name pops up as one of the last contacts for each and every couple before one of them goes missing?"

Robert took a breath and shifted, his hands going to his hips as he studied the floor.

"I run an outdoors shop," he explained, clearly annoyed. "I've been hiking these areas and boating in these lakes my whole life. Almost everyone planning overnight trips comes to me for permits to camp, for campfires. I handle all of that here in my shop. I already told all of this to the police. I'm not happy about what happened to those people…I pride myself in getting people into the mountains and back out safely. It's not going to be wonderful for business once the season is in full swing."

"Four people are missing, one of whom has turned up dead, and you're worried about business?" Molly asked, her voice lowered. Sherlock recognized the tone. He'd been on the receiving end of it more than once.

"Look," Robert said, taking a firm stance. "I'll do whatever is needed to help. Anything to stop these disappearances."

Sherlock's eyebrows rose, slightly surprised by his immediate and full cooperation. He looked around the shop briefly, running a finger along the fabric of a down jacket hanging on a rack next to him.

"Well, you can start by loaning us some equipment," he said with a smile. Molly turned her head sharply and looked at him.

"What?" Robert asked.

"You're taking us to the campsite. Can't possibly navigate hiking paths in these," Sherlock clarified with a look down at his trousers and fine shoes.

"The police have already been up there," Robert argued.

"Yes, and they've come up with so many answers," Sherlock said with a roll of his eyes. "You're the local expert – the perfect guide."

"I can't just close up shop for the day - "

"Oh we can wait 'til tomorrow." Sherlock offered a placating smile that was anything but.

He waited while Robert's jaw worked for a moment, considering his options.

"I need to drop supplies to a group in the back country in the afternoon tomorrow," he said finally. "I can drive you two up to the site on the way, and pick you up again afterwards."

"Fabulous. I'll need some clothes, pants eighty-three, shoe size eleven. Molly, you're what, an eight and five respectively?"

"Eight and four and a half," she muttered, shooting daggers at him.

"Ah," Sherlock said with a look towards Robert. "Can't be right about everything, I suppose."

* * *

With the plans set for the next day, Sherlock bustled Molly back to their rental car. He sent off a text to Lestrade before starting the vehicle and setting them on the road out of town. His mind was starting to eliminate the more outlandish possibilities for the disappearances, connecting the dots and similarities in the cases. It was a small town, he had to be cautious not to mistake limited resources for correlation.

The previous cases turned up nothing in regards to evidence. Not a thing was out of place, not a hint of foul play or motive. Two of the missing people were men, two were women, all aged within a decade of each other. More than anything, there were no bodies. June Phillips was where the pattern ended.

"Sherlock? Where are we going?"

"Nearest constabulary, they have the Phillips' possessions. We need to look at them. Ideally, we'll have permission." Molly's mouth was just forming a protest when his phone chirped. "Ah, get that, will you?" he said, pulling his phone from his pocket and tossing it to her.

Molly pulled up the text and read it quickly.

"Lestrade says you have the go ahead at the station," she told him. "He also requests you keep him updated on what you find."

"If he wanted such up to the minute information, he should have come along. Lazy, as usual."

"He's doing you a favor, letting you investigate this one," Molly reminded him.

A wave of inferiority washed over Sherlock that he hadn't felt in a long time. It curled his lip and set off a knee-jerk reaction of defensiveness and anger that he fought very hard to quell. He was many years past the age when he could blame Mycroft or his parents or his professors for holding him back, for telling him it was for his own good that he was being kept from doing what he wished to do. He was responsible for his own actions. He was responsible for acting in a way that lost the trust of his friends, his colleagues.

That didn't mean he had to like it.

" _Letting_ me," he repeated. "So not only do you think I've been put on a proverbial time-out from Scotland Yard, now you think they're throwing me a bone before I stir up trouble."

He glanced over to see her staring at him, incredibly serious.

"You know it's not me you have to convince that you're doing okay," she told him quietly, looking at the road in front of them.

It was difficult falling into the heavy conversation in a car, forced to look at the road and not at her. Knowing the drive to the constabulary in the next town over was a short one left him with little time to address what she was saying.

"Are you sure about that, Molly?" he asked.

"You're not perfect, Sherlock," she said, and he caught the hint of a smile on her lips before she turned her head to look out the passenger window. "But you're trying. And I know you're okay."

A police officer met them in the lobby of the Cumbria police station and led them to a back room. Unresolved crimes were not common for the area and the Phillips' camping gear took up a substantial portion of the otherwise sparse room. Other than that, only a few boxes of files or evidence sat on a single shelf.

Sherlock began a methodical process of going through every item, peering at odd stains or marks with his magnifying glass. He categorized and separated everything down to the last waterproof match and laid it all out on the floor as he went. He was vaguely aware of Molly looking at the items after him, her eyes no doubt focusing on pathological details that did not pop out at him. What he did see was more evidence that the Phillips' marriage was on the steady path of becoming progressively more mundane. The equipment was cleaned and well cared for (Eric's doing) and the meals packed were healthy and highly organized (June's doing). Eric had brought along a mostly unused fishing kit – he wanted to be a better fisherman, to excel at a typically masculine hobby. June had brought two romance novels, one with a shirtless cowboy and one with a shirtless Scotsman, each clutching a busty woman in a cotton chemise. The implications of the state of their romantic life were horribly obvious.

When every item had been looked over and laid out, he stood staring at the pile, waiting for the penny to drop.

The moment he saw it, it was so glaringly obvious he felt like an idiot for taking so long.

"Where's the fuel canister?" he said suddenly.

"Mm?" Molly replied, looking up from her inspection of the tent.

"They have a lightweight backpacking stove – so where is their fuel canister?" he said excitedly, pointing out the item as he began pacing. "They had at least one meal while they were out there and Eric made no mention that they'd forgotten such an important item. So where is it?"

Molly blinked as the realization hit her.

"I'd say it's a good thing we're getting to look at the site tomorrow," she said, standing up and removing the latex gloves she had donned for her inspection.

* * *

 

Molly was starving by the time they drove back into Keswick late in the afternoon and Sherlock realized they hadn't eaten since breakfast. Unlike himself, when it dawned on Molly that she had skipped a meal or two, she became overly focused on acquiring food. Personally, he was ready to enlist Robert Abernathy to take them up the mountain that very minute to inspect the campsite and a mile radius around it, but he suspected no one would be likely to support that choice. It was already getting dark and even he could concede that investigating would be easier in the daytime.

So, dinner it was.

"Where do you want to go?" he asked her.

"Anywhere with a burger and chips," she said, her eyes lighting up.

Sherlock pulled the car up to the pavement across from a lively looking pub. It seemed half the town had decided to turn out for drinks and chips once the sun began to set. Perhaps the promise of fresh food and brew coming off the delivery van parked outside was the enticement.

They crammed themselves into a tiny corner table and Molly ordered a cheeseburger with everything and a pint. Sherlock raised an eyebrow before declining to eat. He was familiar enough with Molly's habits by now to know that she relished food, but it still amazed him to see someone so enamored with the simple pleasures in life. There was a bit of envy in him, knowing that most everyone else could be satisfied with good food, a paycheck, holding the person they loved at night.

He'd been indulging that last one in recent months. Truth be told, it certainly wasn't the worst feeling to let that portion of his wall crack.

He was startled out of thoughts by two pints being placed down on their table. Looking up, he recognized the girl from their bed and breakfast.

"On the house," Chitra smiled, pulling the serving tray to her side. "You two have given this town more to talk about in two days than in the last two years combined."

"Um, thank you," Molly said, surprised.

"Yeah, of course," the girl said happily.

"Second job, I take it?" Sherlock inquired.

"Oh yeah," Chitra said with a laugh. "I moonlight as a waitress. Puts a little extra money in my pocket. Very exciting life altogether. I heard you're heading to the mountains with Robert tomorrow."

"News does travel fast here," Sherlock grumbled, annoyed that their movements seemed to be public knowledge. A little discretion would have been appreciated.

"He's a good guy," Chitra said. "You'll be in great hands."

"Have you known him long?" Sherlock asked, his curiosity suddenly piqued.

"Years," she said, leaning down with a conspiratorial smile. "He used to print up fake ID's in his shop for some of us when we were younger so we could get into clubs when we went to town – made us promise not to drink, though! Okay with us having fun, just not _too_ much, can you believe it? Totally harmless, all that. But he'll be grand for you as a guide. Just watch out for the banshees!"

Sherlock gave her a half smile as she laughed and walked away. Molly looked at him, her brows knit together.

"What do you make of that?" she asked. "ID fraud?"

"Minor criminal activity does not always lead to major criminal activity," he told her, still staring after Chitra. "However, I do hope I don't have to tell you that it's not banshees we need to look out for."

* * *

 

Molly held onto the grab handle of the Land Rover as Robert drove up the rough dirt road leading into the hills. It was a clear day, but the wind was up, making the drive seem even more treacherous. Sherlock sat in the passenger seat in front of her, his gaze intense as he stared out the window at the terrain around them. It wasn't much to look at in terms of variety – mostly scrub and rock with trees and shrubs popping up below a certain elevation – but it was stunning in its expansiveness and color. There was a serenity in the land that was almost hypnotizing.

The crackle of the radio sounded and a muffled voice came over the speakers. Robert picked up the receiver and pushed the button on the side.

"I'm on my way up," he spoke into the unit. "Should be dropping the supplies to group seven in about forty-five minutes." The voice on the other end spoke again and Robert disconnected. "We number all of our backcountry groups," he explained loudly so Molly could hear, glancing at her in the rearview mirror. "Estimate when they should be reaching certain camps and all that. Helps us keep track in case anything goes wrong."

Molly offered him a small smile before looking back out the window. Whatever method they had been using, it was obviously not enough to keep people from vanishing in the middle of nowhere.

They drove on for a while longer until they reached a plateau and a bend in the road. A small metal sign marking a foot trail stood a few meters from the road. The three of them hopped out of the car and Robert led them towards the trailhead.

"First campsite on the path is a little over a mile that way," he told them, pointing in the direction the thin trail of dirt went. "They camped by the stream. It should still be marked as long as no one has messed with the police markers." He gestured for Sherlock to hold out his arm, pointing to his own watch. "I have three o'six exactly. Make sure your watch says the same. I'll be back at this spot in an hour and a half. Don't wander off, don't go where you can't see the trail. If you get lost, there's no phone reception up here. Got it?"

"Got it," Sherlock ground out, clearly annoyed at being treated like an amateur.

Robert nodded and returned to his car, starting the engine and slowly guiding the vehicle down the road and out of sight.

"Come along, Molly," Sherlock said, turning swiftly and heading onto the trail.

His coat billowed in the wind and Molly thought again how he was rather unwilling to let this part of his persona go, even for just half a day. When they had met in the foyer, she momentarily thought he'd forgotten any of the clothing they'd begged off the shop. One quick double take revealed the new clothes and shoes, but the coat would apparently be sufficing for warmth. As they headed up the trail with the cool wind whipping at their backs, she considered that he may have had the right idea. Her own coat was doing the bare minimum to keep her warm.

When they reached the site, marked by an orange tag on a spike, Sherlock immediately began scouring the surrounding area. Molly trudged off in the opposite direction, deciding it would be the best way to cover ground more quickly. She made her way along the banks of the stream, searching the ground for any incongruities. As she approached a small shrub, she noticed sunlight glinting off of something beneath the low lying branches.

"Sherlock!" she called out, crouching down to get a better look.

Sure enough, there lay the missing fuel canister, slightly rusted. Sherlock was at her side in a moment, reaching under the brush to pull the canister out. Molly took in the dented side.

"Looks like dried blood," she said, pointing to the stains on the metal. "I think we have the murder weapon."

"If so, Eric Phillips has quite a lot of explaining to do," he said heatedly, standing up to retrace their steps. He pointed towards the site of the camp only ten steps away. "The murder happened within earshot of the tent. The killer grabs the canister, attacks June, causing immediate hemorrhaging and blood loss. She falls into the stream, where she picks up the organic material we found. It sticks to her when she's pulled out."

"How was she brought down the mountain? And why put her in a freezer?"

"The road is close enough to carry a body to with a little effort. From there, a vehicle transport," Sherlock said quickly, walking quickly back to the path. Molly scurried after him, trying to keep pace as he made his way downhill. "Oh, it's all beginning to make sense now. She needed to be gotten rid of and fast. She was a spanner in the plans."

"What plans?"

"Those other people, they didn't die, Molly. They just disappeared. Just like Eric Phillips was supposed to disappear."

Molly was utterly confused, trying to catch her breath as she followed him.

"I don't understand," she confessed.

"Don't you see? They were running away from their lives," he said, looking at her over his shoulder as he paused. "Absconding with new identities in the middle of bloody nowhere. That was Eric's plan, until his wife caught him in the act, somehow, someway. Making him our killer, or - "

"Or someone who was helping him," Molly finished with a sense of dread.

Within twenty minutes, they were back at the trailhead and her fears only increased. There was no sign of the Land Rover. More disturbingly, a pile of gear had been left alongside the road. Sherlock looked at his watch, breathing heavily.

"Four o'four," he said, scanning the horizon.

"He _left_ us up here?" she exclaimed, feeling a cool sweat begin to prickle her skin.

"Very probable," Sherlock said apologetically. "Though clearly his intentions were somewhat less than lethal."

He gestured towards the pile of gear – a tent, two sleeping bags, and a small stock of food and water.

"Well thank God for small blessings," Molly muttered, staring into the distance. "I still don't understand any of this."

Even though her family had gone camping when she was young, Molly had never had the experience of feeling so isolated and removed from civilization as she did halfway up that mountain. She'd certainly never had the experience of hearing the wind approach over the hills before feeling it hit her skin. She looked at Sherlock, watching his eyes take in their situation as the sun dipped lower on the horizon and the temperature dropped by the minute. His coat suddenly looked very inviting.

Glancing back at the pile of gear, she wondered what their combined skills for setting up camp would be. He hardly seemed like the type to have been in the Scouts.

It was going to be an interesting night.


	8. Chapter 8

By the time the sun went down, Molly had watched Sherlock pace around and extend his arm in every position possible trying to find reception on his phone. It would have been more entertaining if he hadn't left her to try to work out how to set up the tent. After the fifth time she managed to pull the canvas into an upright position only to have the wind blow it right over again, she firmly requested that he stop and help her.

Their dinner consisted of water, dehydrated fruit, and a few protein bars. While Sherlock grumbled about the selection, Molly was just grateful they had been left food at all. If Robert Abernathy was a killer, he was the most considerate one she had ever heard of. Though, he could have done them a favor and left some firewood and matches. She was shivering once the sun went down, wondering why people put themselves through the discomfort of sleeping outside in the first place. Sure, it was beautiful and the stars were magnificent, but it would have been better if her teeth weren't chattering.

She patted herself on the back for remembering to bring a packet of antibacterial wipes in her bag, cleaning her hands off before deciding to remove her contacts. Some people may have called her paranoid for obsessively carrying the wipes, but in her line of work it was always a good idea.

Having finally given up on getting any sort of message out on his phone, Sherlock waited for her to finish with her contacts before placing a gentle hand at her elbow and guiding her towards the tent. She wasn't exactly blind without the contacts, but it was nice to have the help. She followed along appreciatively, crawling inside the tent and happy to have a reprieve from the gusts of wind. Sherlock had opened the sleeping bags completely, spreading one on the ground as a mat and placing the other on top as a blanket.

"Body heat. It'll be warmer this way," he explained when she gave him a look. Molly raised an eyebrow and he rolled his eyes. "You let me sleep in your bed, but this is somehow too much?"

"Why did he bother to leave us this stuff, anyway?" she asked, genuinely curious, as she slipped under the sleeping bag. "Wouldn't it have been easier to just dispose of us?"

"When did you develop the morose streak?"

"I work with dead bodies all day…and you," she added with a smile.

"He's not a killer. That much is clear. More likely an accessory. Adding our bodies to the count would not have been prudent. He simply needed to get us out of the way long enough to make his getaway," Sherlock explained as he removed his shoes and slid in to join Molly.

She scooted over to him as he lifted his arm to allow her closer. She hated to admit it, but it was already warmer with the benefit of his nearness. They adjusted their bodies, trying to find a comfortable position in the confines of the sleeping bag, and Molly yelped a bit when Sherlock's hand accidentally brushed low – very low – on her stomach.

"God, Sherlock, buy a girl dinner first," she said with a laugh.

"I tried a long time ago, you turned me down."

She bit her lip as they finally settled, feeling like an arse.

"That was a joke, Molly," he said, nuzzling into the back of her head.

"Ha ha," she deadpanned. Sherlock huffed and pulled her closer, lowering his face to the crook of her neck, causing her to shiver when their skin met. "Your nose is cold."

"Everything's cold."

Molly couldn't help the smirk that crept onto her face.

"Everything?"

With his body pressed against the length of her, she could feel the vibrations of the groan of irritation he let out and she bit back a laugh.

"Really, Molly? Now?"

"Might help us warm up."

"As true as that is, it would also produce a good amount of perspiration which, once we'd finished, would only add to the risk of hypothermia. The five or so minutes of heat would hardly be worth the resulting discomfort."

"Five minutes?" Molly repeated, frowning.

"It's been two years," Sherlock grumbled into her hair. "I don't know about you, but I didn't exactly think to pack any condoms. How long do you think it would last? It would hardly compare to our other times."

Realizing the soundness of his argument, Molly hummed her agreement and dropped the subject that had only started as a bit of teasing in the first place. It was quiet for a few moments, allowing her to take in the sound of the wind outside, whistling and moaning over the contours of the hills and crests of the mountain.

"That reminds me," Sherlock said, breaking the silence. "You never did answer my question – how was old Meat Dagger?"

"Sherlock!"

"What?" he asked innocently.

"I'm not discussing that with you," she said firmly.

"You were the one who brought up how much sex you were having," he reasoned.

She bit her lip and hated how much he managed to remember – and how right he was, even if she had only said those things to take the piss out of him.

"I'm not going to bash him, if that's what you're hoping for," she said, pausing for a moment to collect her thoughts. Under the sleeping bag, her hand slid down and found his pressed against her stomach. "It wasn't anything to complain about. But…it wasn't like with you. Not even close."

As expected, she felt his chest swell against her back with a breath she suspected had to do with pride. He said nothing more on the subject and she let herself relax against him, trying to rest despite the discomfort of lying on the ground.

* * *

 

A hangover would have been preferable to the way Molly felt when she woke up. Her back ached, her neck was horribly stiff, and her throat felt raw from the cold morning air. She moaned unhappily and closed her eyes, not even close to being ready to leave the warmth of Sherlock's arms. She gripped his wrist when he started to withdraw his arm from around her waist.

"Not ready yet," she mumbled. "Too cold."

"We have to get moving, Molly," he said, his voice deeper as it usually was in the mornings. "It's just past dawn, the sooner we can contact Scotland Yard the better chance we have of finishing this case."

She grunted her begrudging agreement and let him get up, following slowly. Stretching her limbs as she went, she crawled out of the tent and squinted against the bright morning sun. Sherlock was already ten paces down the road, his phone in his hand. Molly sighed and grabbed the last protein bar and a bottle of water before she hurried after him.

They had been walking for nearly an hour when Sherlock froze and held a hand out to stop her. With lightning speed, he started texting.

"Finally," he said as the phone let out a little 'whoosh' when the text sent. He continued typing and held the phone up to his ear. "Lestrade, send officers to Heathrow and have security be on the lookout for Eric Phillips, Robert Abernathy, and a third male that will undoubtedly be with them. They'll be traveling under false names. Detain them." He paused while Lestrade spoke, obviously saying something that had Sherlock rolling his eyes. "Find an excuse to hold them! Let Donovan do it, she's far better at finding the right reasons to arrest someone than you are. Oh, and while you're at it, call the Cumbria police and have them send a vehicle up this bloody mountain."

Molly smiled, unable to keep herself from feeling overwhelmingly proud of him and his abilities. Because of him, June Phillip's killer would likely be in jail by the end of the day.

And she wouldn't have to walk the remaining five miles back down to Keswick. Sherlock was an absolute hero as far as she was concerned.

The police met them on the road and had them back to town in no time. They drove right past Wildlands and Molly looked out at the officers standing outside the shop, yellow tape blocking the residents as they tried to peer in to see what the fuss was about.

"What are they going to find in there?" she asked.

"If he was careless, evidence of identity theft, funds from all of the 'victims' as payment, including Eric Phillips. They would have had to leave in a hurry, chances are they left something behind," Sherlock told her, sounding almost disappointed in the stupidity of their suspects.

He waited for her while she showered quickly and packed her things at the bed and breakfast, carrying their things to the car.

"I'm driving," she said, holding out her hand for the keys.

"Why?" he asked skeptically, though he reached into his pocket and handed the keys over.

"Because you go too slowly and all I want to do is get home as quickly as possible, convict those men of murder, order some lamb vindaloo, and wear every jumper and blanket I own for the next twelve hours," she told him as they climbed into the vehicle.

* * *

 

"Detained them at the gate for a flight to Argentina" Lestrade said, handing a file over to Sherlock, which he quickly disregarded and passed to Molly as the three of them strode through Scotland Yard. Lestrade pointed towards a door at the end of the hall. "Phillips is in the far room, Abernathy is in the middle, and his mate Simon is in the near room. Donovan is interviewing Simon. We've already brought charges of identity theft against them. Care to add murder to that?"

"Delighted," Sherlock answered, heading straight for the middle room.

Lestrade caught the door as Sherlock entered the room, nodding to Molly to let her know it was okay to join them. She hesitated, unused about being part of this side of the investigation, but decided she'd been through enough to make watching Abernathy's story being shredded to pieces worth it. She hustled into the room and stood near the corner.

"Rene Wormwood was not the first person to come to you, asking to escape her life, was she?" Sherlock started out, standing very still in front of the table where Robert Abernathy was seated. "It was a friend of hers, someone who'd probably been coming to your shop for years and seen first-hand how talented you were at making documents and ID's."

Robert simply lowered his head, looking at his clasped hands on the surface of the table.

"That first person must have offered you a lot of money," Sherlock went on. "Otherwise you wouldn't have bothered. You have no real interest in criminal activity. You get no thrill from it. But you will always take the money. But the first time did not involve the clockwork operation you have going now, did it?"

"No," Robert mumbled.

"It's a beautifully simple operation, isn't it, Robert?" Sherlock said slowly, his complete focus on the man in question. "They slowly start diverting portions of their income, disguised as investments in a company – maybe a human rights friendly stock or an environmental nonprofit, whatever will appease their spouse. Enough money to build up a nice nest egg, but not enough to elicit an objection from the wife or husband. You keep it for them in an account. Then, when the time is right, they pick one of the most remote places in all of England, and simply disappear. When really, you're there to meet them in the dark of night, knowing the lay of the land with your eyes closed, to lead them out. You print them new ID's, passports, whatever they wish to begin their new lives. Then into the cab of the refrigerated delivery van to be transported to London – oh yes, I did notice the van just two nights ago as Molly and I were looking for a suitable place to dine. It's the only one to make weekly trips out of the area. And you happen to be best mates with the driver. Absolutely perfect, as it turns out, for transporting a body without attracting attention. One you had not planned on being in possession of, one you were horrified to deal with, getting it as far away from the crime scene as possible. Have I missed anything?"

Making a strangled noise, Robert shook his head. Sherlock looked to Lestrade and gave an almost imperceptible nod, then headed for the door. Sherlock swept out of the room, making a quick turn in the hall and completely ignoring Lestrade when the DI tried to catch his attention.

"Not done yet," Sherlock said quickly, letting himself into the far room.

Molly followed quickly on the men's heels.

Eric Phillips looked an absolute wreck; far worse than the first time Molly had laid eyes on him. He looked genuinely terrified of Sherlock and the sure expression he wore.

"We know what your initial plans were for that night in the mountains, so why don't we skip that part and you can tell us where it all went wrong," Sherlock said, his voice tight.

"I," Eric started, pausing to swallow heavily. "She was supposed to be asleep. I switched her sleep aid pills with a stronger dose, she was supposed to be totally asleep. She must have heard me get up…followed me out. I told her I just had to…use the 'gents." He smiled wryly at the memory of his own excuse. "She yelled at me, asked if I thought she was stupid. Told me I was an idiot – I was carrying my pack and a bottle of water. Said she knew I was up to something. I…just lost it. I was so angry I couldn't see straight…so mad. She always made me that way, you know? Just never could do anything right in her eyes…S-so I just grabbed the nearest thing I could reach and…and…"

Molly couldn't help it – she felt her throat constricting at his words. She knew he had done something horrible, she understood how awful it was, but the man before her seemed so beaten down and wronged by life. It made her sad for humanity, knowing that someone would choose to murder their spouse over just walking away.

"You met with Robert at your predetermined spot and the two of you panicked," Sherlock filled in. "He did the first thing he thought of – radioed for his friend to meet you at the base of the mountain road. Filled the freezer with water to freeze the body and cut down on the smell and locked June away, knowing she would show up in London as a Jane Doe. Simply the latest victim in a string of mysterious disappearances."

It was silent in the room when he finished speaking, though Lestrade looked very much like he would love to have throttled him for his curt words.

"No one was supposed to die," Eric said desperately, spreading his hand wide over the table as he looked imploringly at the three of them.

"No one is ever _supposed_ to die," Sherlock told him with very little sympathy. "That's generally why murders are covered up."

Once out in the hall again, Sherlock promptly told Lestrade that they had more than enough evidence and he couldn't be bothered to waste his time with the delivery driver. Molly followed him as he made his way out of Scotland Yard and headed straight towards the car.

"Baker Street, Molly," he told her, leaving no room for argument, as she unlocked the car and climbed into the driver's side. "I do believe I owe you dinner."

She wasn't sure when he'd found the time since arriving back in London to order the food, but by the time they reached Baker Street it was waiting for them in the kitchen, obviously brought up by Mrs. Hudson.

"She spoils you rotten," Molly said with a smile as she took in the most welcoming sight of lamb vindaloo, chicken korma, rice, naan, raita, and vegetable curry. She spied the container of kheer and thought she just might love Sherlock more than ever.

"Oh she loves it, she's got to fuss over somebody, it might as well be me," he replied cheekily, handing her a plate as they tucked in.

* * *

 

"Stop hogging the kheer," Molly said, watching Sherlock take another large spoonful straight from the container while she cleared the plates from the coffee table. Her eyes had been larger than her stomach, but she had no regrets. And she certainly had room for dessert.

"Did you know that many people think rice pudding is a dish descended from early explorers' exposure to kheer in the East?" he asked her around the mouthful he had just taken. "Though in India it's made in temples and for ceremonies. It was made in our house because Mycroft begged for it three or four times a week. Not exactly a spiritual experience."

She listened to his story with a smile as she placed the dishes in the sink and grabbed a spoon from the cutlery drawer. Walking back into the living room, she saw him reclined into the sofa with his feet up on the coffee table, working his way through more of the dessert.

"None of that changes the fact that you're taking more than your share," she said, plopping down next to him on the sofa and maneuvering her spoon into the mix.

He gave her a disgruntled look and playfully parried her spoon with his, causing her to smile as she successfully managed a spoonful of kheer and triumphantly closed her lips around it, reveling in the cool, creamy texture. She closed her eyes, licked her lips, then opened them again to find Sherlock staring at her. She stilled and swallowed heavily when she noticed his eyes had followed the path of the spoon, settling on her mouth. The ever present control in his face had dropped away and he seemed fixated on her in calm contemplation. Without looking, Sherlock set the kheer and his spoon down on the coffee table, leaned forward and kissed her.

Hard.

Her fingers lost their grip on her spoon and it clattered to the floor next to the sofa. The fabric of her jeans scraped along the leather cushions as his hands slid around her waist and pulled her roughly to him, one of her legs automatically hooking over his. Her body recovered from the burst of shock and pleasure and she leaned into him, her arms winding around his shoulders to let him know not to stop.

Oh god, she never wanted him to stop.

Over three years since they had first slept together and somehow this felt like the first time they'd been this close, this confident with each other. She'd never expected them to change this much – him becoming a compassionate, loyal man, her becoming the strength and logic of the operation. After all their starts and stops, the harsh words and pretending to be fine, he wasn't fooling around this time.

Molly whimpered as his hands started to roam her body, teasing out tingles and shivers and flushing her skin with warmth. She shifted further into his lap, eliciting a deep sound of satisfaction from him.

Clothes were divested, sighs and moans filled the room, and smiles and laughs exchanged when her hair fell in the way or he tried too eagerly to change their position and nearly landed them both on the floor. The leather of the couch was a nightmare on her back, but the effort to acquire the condoms he had hidden under the sofa ("Why do you have them stashed there?..." "Determined the odds of where this would end up happening. Also have them in a drawer in the kitchen, medicine cabinet, bedside table, hollow post in the stairwell banister – I admit that one was a bit of a long shot…") was difficult enough. She was loath to ask him to fetch a blanket to toss on the cushions. The feel of his hands gliding over her body distracted her from the leather rubbing against her skin. When he finally sank into her, pulling her hips to meet him and filling her with slow, shallow thrusts, she felt like she was floating on a cloud. A slow burning, orgasmic cloud meant to curl her toes and rip breathless nonsense from her mouth, but a cloud nevertheless.

Twenty glorious minutes later, they were panting for breath, clinging to the final moments of pleasure, and the sofa of 221B could be considered officially corrupted.

"Stay here tonight, Molly," Sherlock said, nuzzling the skin below her ear.

"Okay," she agreed, smiling. He pulled back and looked down at her with an amused expression. Her smile increased. "What?"

"That was far too easy," he told her. "Aren't you supposed to at least pretend to play hard to get? Make me beg?"

"I think we've been playing that game for a little too long, don't you?" she said, earning an accepting tip of the head from him. A thought occurred to her and she bit her lip to keep from grinning, then rolled her body against his and leaned in to place her lips against his ear. "But I can still make you beg if you really want…"


	9. Chapter 9

The Holmes boys had been brought up with the tradition of going to church one Sunday per month, more out of obligation and habit than anything else. Over the years, it tapered down to holiday attendance and only after much resistance on the part of Sherlock and Mycroft. At home, most mentions of God's name came in the form of frustration from their mother: "For God's sake, Mikey, leave your brother alone!" "Good God, Sherlock, what poor dead creature have you brought into this house?"

The point was, Sherlock Holmes was not typically a praying man. He was not in the habit of pleading to God.

That all changed that night with Molly. He had never repressed the memories of their time together, though he told himself a hundred times that he should. His diligence in trying to keep her at arm's length was obviously doomed without deleting what had gone on between them, but there was no point in trying to forget without losing all that she had done for him, the importance of her influence. Saving his life, twice. Quite literally slapping the sense back into him when he was wallowing in self-pity.

He didn't want to lose any of that. He was done letting Moriarty destroy what meant the most to him.

So he spent the better part of the night pleading with God, pleading with Molly, or just pleading with the empty space above his bed as they made up for two years of lost time.

As was usual for him, Sherlock barely slept while Molly finally drifted off sometime after midnight, her skin still flushed and her hair disheveled. He watched her in between bouts of sleep, finding that he was fascinated by the study of her body. She slept on her stomach with her arms bunched up under the pillow, which he found interesting. It certainly made it easy to lightly drag his fingers along the length of her back, teasing at the rise of her backside until she shifted slightly, making a soft noise, and he knew she was awake again.

Moving stealthily, he slid closer to her, bracing himself with one arm next to her side while the other slipped around her hip, his hand sliding between the mattress and her body until his fingers settled in a spot she'd expressed extreme appreciation for. He brushed against her lightly with his fingertips for a while, enjoying the small whimpers and subtle increase in her breathing. It shouldn't have surprised him that a woman who dealt with death and his own dangerous antics without blinking an eye would not be shy when it came to physical pleasure, but Molly's fervor was a marvelous discovery nonetheless.

Shifting so that he was flush against her backside, dropping kisses onto her bare shoulder, Sherlock gripped her harder, pulling her hips up off the mattress and towards him. Molly gasped, no doubt startled by his sudden movements…and perhaps by the feeling of the erection pressing against the apex of her thighs. He liked to think that he was a man who was above the need for ego stroking when it came to bedroom performance, but the way she responded to him left him with a nearly blinding desire to make her forget she'd ever been with another man. It was a stupid, primitive feeling, but he wasn't going to deny it.

He watched every little movement of her body – her ribcage expanding sharply with every strained breath, her delicate fingers gripping the sheets, her teeth digging into her bottom lip as her hips rolled against his hand, her flesh slick and warm under his fingers. He couldn't wait a moment longer. Grabbing a condom from the bedside table, he pushed her thighs apart insistently with his knees. He rolled the condom on quickly, returning to his manual ministrations as he brought his hips towards her, sinking into her warmth in one thrust.

Molly cried out, bucking against him as her muscles clenched and rippled almost immediately, and he nearly lost his own control. His eyes shut tightly and he felt every muscle within him go taut, fighting for command of his body. Slipping his hand away from between her legs, Sherlock dragged his fingers over her arse and up the small of her back, watching her shudder under his touch.

"Sher-Sherlock," Molly panted. "Please…"

He smiled lazily and leaned forward, placing his mouth next to her ear.

"Please what, Molly?" he said, his voice rough and deep. Feeling bold, reckless, he threaded his fingers through her hair and wound the strands into his grasp, pulling slightly. She let out a gasping whimper, looking at him over her shoulder with heavily lidded eyes, the color of dark cognac.

"Please fuck me, Sherlock."

There was a deepness that crept into her normally timid voice, a small half smile that turned up her lips that had him obeying her words before he even knew what he was doing. Hearing his Molly, his pathologist, talk to him like that… It was like a fire building up inside of him, blinding him to everything but her body. She'd been holding back all that time ago in her little flat, enjoying the pleasures of having him in her bed but not truly letting loose. The Molly in his arms at Baker Street was hiding nothing. His forehead dropped to her shoulder and the hand that held her hair let go of the tresses only to grip at the flesh on her hips, fingers kneading in rhythm with his thrusts. For the fourth time that night, he could feel her tightening around him, sending his mind spinning as the fire in his belly turned white hot and he convulsed inside of her, groaning into the curve of her neck.

Molly hummed in disappointment when he pulled away from her a few minutes later, breathing somewhat returned to normal. He chuckled and leaned down to place a kiss on her shoulder before sliding off the bed.

"Be right back," he told her.

Slipping into the bathroom, he cleaned himself up. He'd known that starting a physical relationship with Molly again would consume him. It was part of the reason he'd turned to her after jumping off of Bart's. The distraction was desperately needed and she had been the reliable friend he'd come to count on, even if she had every right to turn him down or kick him out. But she hadn't done that; she'd been there when he needed her, asking absolutely nothing in return. He just hadn't been prepared to continue needing her.

Was he out of his senses for allowing this to happen, for finally letting sentiment get a hold on him? Perhaps. But then again, people thought he was out of his senses most of the time anyway.

Walking back into the bedroom, he collapsed on the bed next to her, sprawling out a bit just to pry a smile from her. She turned on her side and propped her head in her palm, eyes over his form. The lack of self-consciousness she displayed while lying bare beside him intrigued him to no end. Once they had no secrets left, her hesitation simply disappeared.

"I like your hair like this," Molly said softly, reaching out to thread her fingers through his locks.

"Like what?"

"Messy," she answered. "It looks nice."

Sherlock watched her watching him for a few moments, coming very quickly to the conclusion that this was most certainly going to be a permanent shift in their relationship. If he backed away now for any reason he would lose her and that just wouldn't do. The threat of losing her during his relapse had been frightening enough. If he upset her now, he would never be able to live with himself. For that matter, he would never hear the end of it from John, and the only thing worse than Molly being upset with him was John being mad at him for making Molly upset.

He sighed. Sometimes social navigation was so convoluted and tedious.

"What was the sigh for?" Molly asked, her brow furrowed.

"You know my opinion on the conventions of romantic love and the blinding attachment sentiment can cause in the human mind," he said rapidly, noticeably avoiding eye contact.

"Oh please, do go on," Molly said, her tone dry even though she suspected the conversation might just be leading somewhere rewarding. Sherlock let out a huff.

"It's a generally illogical process, one driven by chemical stimulation and which can be lessened or even reversed as time passes and novelty wears off. Attraction based on these impulses and not given proper thought is fairly doomed." He stopped and glanced at her, his lips twitching nervously as he gathered his next words. "However…there is another school of thought, I suppose. A more rational application of sentiment based on analysis of a relationship over time. It could even be construed as…the thing is, Molly…what I'm trying to tell you is that I…love you."

"Oh, Sherlock, I know you do."

"What?"

She laughed sweetly at his surprised expression.

"I haven't shaved anything in three days, I was a complete mess from travel last night, you watched me eat my body weight in Indian food without batting an eye and you still wanted to shag me through the mattress for most of the night…if that's not love, I don't know what is."

Sherlock nodded, feeling a great rush of success.

"Am I correct in assuming you still love me?" he asked, almost anxious as he awaited her answer.

"Of course I love you," she said gently, her lips curving in a lovely smile.

"Good," he said, nodding again and swallowing. "Good."

Molly tiled her head and furrowed her brow.

"Did you think I'd stopped?"

"I wouldn't blame you if you did."

Her eyes narrowed and a small frown appeared on her face as she stared at him.

"Why are you always so hard on yourself?"

"I deserve to be. What right do I have to be happy after the things I've done, the way I am?"

"You – you do amazing things, too, you know," Molly said, looking him in the eye with her mouth turned down in concern. "And John and I aren't the only ones who think so."

It was a hard confession to hear, even if he recognized that her admiration was pure. His "beautiful gifts," as she'd so desperately called them, had earned him more hatred than love in his life. He had always expected her to drop him like the burden he was when she found out what he was really like – the things he was capable of doing and the habits he had failed to walk away from. But, as John had pointed out, she was with him to the bitter end. She was either a glutton for punishment or the best woman the world could offer him. He liked to think she was the latter.

Molly gave him a small smile and her eyes flicked away from his, seeming to understand he wasn't about to argue her point. Her free hand drifted out to trail her fingers across the expanse of his back, soothing and gentle, tracing places her nails had dug in during their passion as well as the fading marks of his stint as a prisoner in Serbia. She'd seen them before. The first time, he'd had to talk her down from her fury at what his brother had allowed to happen. There was not much love lost between her and Mycroft, though Sherlock had tried to make her understand that they both wished to protect him. They only went about it in different ways. Explaining the complex dynamic of the Holmes brothers was not an easy task, particularly to the woman who only wanted to see him safe, unharmed, and happy.

"What time is it?" she asked, clearly deciding to drop the more serious topics.

"A little after five," he answered.

Molly groaned and dropped her head from her palm and into the pillow below her. Her golden-brown hair spilled over her shoulder, hiding the side of her face from his view.

"I told Mike I'd come in for the mid-shift today," she mumbled into the cotton. "I've barely slept."

"Why did you agree to work?" Sherlock said, genuinely baffled.

"The case was over, I figured it was fine," she replied, turning her head to look at him. "I hadn't really planned to spend the better part of the night getting shagged into oblivion."

Sherlock's lips turned up and he reached out to brush her hair from her face, tucking the strands behind the shell of her ear.

"You have a few hours to rest," he told her. "I'll wake you in time. Although, if you're having trouble sleeping, I have a few things around that could aid you - "

"Sherlock Holmes, if you ever try to drug me, I swear it will be your last act," Molly threatened, her voice flat. "Do you even know the chemicals I have access to? The things I would do to get even…"

"I was _offering_ ," he said with a smile, though his heart jumped a bit at the thought of the talents and capabilities of Molly Hooper, vengeful pathologist. "Go to sleep, Molly."

* * *

 

As promised, Sherlock woke Molly with plenty of time to shower and enjoy breakfast at Baker Street before having to leave for St. Bart's. He donned a pair of ratty pjyama bottoms and an old shirt as she disappeared into the bathroom, wandering into the kitchen as he pulled his dressing gown over his shoulders. He smiled as he listened to the sound of the shower starting. Their clothes were still scattered throughout the flat. Signs of another life in his space. He liked it.

Mrs. Hudson had clearly crept in at some point in the morning – there was a tray of blueberry scones and jams laid out on the table and a set of cups and saucers waiting for tea. He appreciated the gesture; he was rubbish at breakfast. Molly would never mind that, she rarely had more than a piece of toast or fruit in the mornings. Tea, however, he could manage. He prepped the kettle and was waiting for the water to boil when he heard footsteps on the stairs. Distinct, familiar footsteps.

"Oh Christ..."

"Sherlock?" Mary's cheerful greeting rang out in the flat as the door opened with little more than a quick knock. "In the neighborhood, popped by for a visit…"

"Kitchen!" Sherlock called out, trying to pull their attention as they stepped into the flat. Mary stepped around the corner first, carrying Joanna in her carseat. Her eyes swept over the room and landed on the tray of food and teacups before lifting to Sherlock's with a knowing look. He tilted his head and glared at her, willing her to keep silent as John rounded the corner.

"Heard you were done with your case," John said, glancing at the mess in the living room without making any obvious connections. "Doesn't take you long to mess the place up, does it?"

"Yes, well…the case was tiring," Sherlock said.

"I bet it was," Mary said with a smirk as she settled Joanna's carrier on the ground and reached up to remove her coat.

"Still exhausted, actually," Sherlock said pointedly, shooting her a look. "Nice of you to drop in. Goodbye."

"Oh but the kettle's just boiled," Mary pouted, fully intending to extend his torture. "At least invite us for a cuppa."

"Tell us about the case, we could use a break," John added somewhat eagerly. Sherlock wrinkled his nose at them.

"Am I your personal bard now?" he sneered.

"C'mon now, you've got the cups all set out and everything," Mary said slowly, her eyebrows lifting quickly and flashing him a taunting grin.

John glanced down at the table and noticed the place settings for two, finally catching up with his wife. Sherlock rolled his eyes and waited for the fallout. Three years was a perfectly adequate amount of time to keep his feelings for Molly quiet. Personal best in terms of keeping a secret. It might have gone on longer if it weren't for Mary. As it was, Sherlock was fairly sure John had not made the connection as to _exactly_ what was going on yet; he was only just slowly glancing at the clothes strewn about, the neurons firing at their typically average rate.

"Hang on…"

"Sherlock? Did you say something?"

Three sets of eyes turned to see Molly step out of the bathroom, her hair pinned loosely on top of her head and a towel clutched around her body. He watched her face transform from curiosity to confusion to mortification in under five seconds and a blush crept down her exposed skin, enhancing the glow she already exhibited from the shower. She gripped the towel tightly and tugged at the bottom, for all the good it did – it still barely covered the tops of her thighs. If they were alone, Sherlock would have taken her right back into the bathroom and immediately removed the towel. The thought had him shifting to discreetly adjust his trousers.

"Oh! I thou – I thought I heard voices. I thought it was Sherlock," Molly stammered, waffling in the hall. Her eyes darted around for a moment before her face broke out in an embarrassed grin that she quickly covered with her hand, darting back into the bathroom with a laugh. "Oh my god."

"Oh, now we're definitely staying," Mary said, sitting down at the table.

* * *

 

Molly nervously fiddled with the china cup between her hands as Mary grinned at her from across the kitchen table, Joanna nestled comfortably in her mother's arms. She spared a quick glance to her left and caught Sherlock's eye from his current position in his leather chair. Whether John had caught on to Sherlock's distinct avoidance of the couch or not was a mystery, but he took the cue to sit in his old chair. The two of them were decidedly quiet.

"I can't believe it," Mary said, leaning in. "One case out of London with him and suddenly you're shagging."

Molly looked down into her teacup and made a face.

"Well…"

Mary tilted her head slightly and her expression sobered.

"This _was_ the first time, wasn't it?" she asked quietly. Molly glanced up at her and smiled sheepishly. Mary's eyes widened considerably, whispering dramatically, " _When_?"

"Three years ago - "

"Three years?" Mary cried, drawing the attention of the men sitting in the other room and causing Joanna to squirm in her sleep. Molly shot her an admonishing look and tugged at the sleeves of her jumper, shifting in her seat as she glanced over at John and Sherlock. The latter looked on the verge of running out of the room. The former looked annoyed.

"Are you getting better information in there?" John called out. Mary waved a dismissive hand at him.

"We can compare notes later," she replied, turning her attention back to Molly. "Are you telling me you two have been bed hopping behind our backs for three years? Was Tom just a front?"

"No, Tom was not a front," Molly said quickly, keeping her voice low. She took a deep breath and collected herself. "It was – that is, with Sherlock – it was…complicated. After he 'died'…I guess he needed someone. I didn't mind being there for him."

Mary's face dropped as she took in Molly's words, looking somewhat chided. It felt strange to admit to another person the motivation behind the start of their relationship, but saying it aloud was a relief. It suddenly seemed less trivial, less like a moment in time that promised nothing for the future and everything for the here and now. Really, she should have known at the time that the only conclusion was Sherlock finding his way back to her.

"I can't believe you kept that quiet for three years… in addition to the whole faked suicide business," Mary said quietly, her eyes staring into space and looking as though she were mentally reviewing every interaction she'd ever seen between Molly and Sherlock to connect the dots. "It's not just about needing someone anymore, is it?"

Molly paused before she answered, looking subtly over at Sherlock again.

"I wouldn't say that," she said reflectively.

* * *

 

Fingers drumming incessantly on the arm of his chair, Sherlock waited agitatedly for John to say something.

"So," his friend finally spoke up, eyeing Sherlock carefully. "You and Molly – official?"

"We haven't had anything notarized as of yet. Is that something I should look into doing? It's so difficult keeping up with the standards of the dating world these days," Sherlock said, not the least bit amused.

"You're not just messing about with her, Sherlock," John stated rather than questioned, leaning forward and lowering his voice as he spoke. His eyes had grown stern. "If you break her heart, and you will if you're not serious about this – "

"It's not messing about, John," he said frankly, glancing up to make sure they hadn't been overheard. He shifted in the chair slightly as his friend continued to assess the truthfulness in his answer.

"Good," John finally said, leaning back in his chair again. Sherlock raised his eyebrows as they sat awkwardly in silence for a few moments.

"You and Mary?" he inquired, reaching for a way to show interest in return.

"Yeah, good," John said, his head bobbing to emphasize his words. "Much better. And Joanna's brilliant, thanks for asking."

"I was getting to it," Sherlock said defensively.

"I had no idea you had a phobia of babies," John said with a smile.

"I don't."

"Good, 'cause you're going to have to babysit eventually. It's your duty as godfather," John informed him. "You can have Molly along to help if you want, it'll be good practice for you two."

"Mary, it's time to take your husband home," Sherlock called into the kitchen.

* * *

 

Being somber during post-mortems was not exactly a job requirement for Molly, but she knew that the little smiles that were perpetually sneaking onto her face during her shift would probably not be looked on with approval by any of her superiors. Her focus was as diligent as ever, but in the moments when she was waiting for the scale to calibrate before placing an organ on it or rinsing off instruments covered in blood and flesh, her mind projected flickering images from the night before like an old film. It was somewhat appropriate, if admittedly strange, that she would be thinking about Sherlock while surrounded by the dead.

It wasn't only the spine tingling memories that had her mind occupied. Part of her wondered why he had suddenly chosen to give up on keeping some semblance of a distance between them. He materialized on her doorstep in the months after the New Year mostly to assure both of them that she was safe, but if Moriarty had any doubt as to her importance to him those visits would have been enough to erase it completely. Sherlock had been avoiding her physically to help himself. She could only conclude that, perhaps, the risk was not as bad as they'd all assumed.

She was still pondering the impossible workings of Sherlock's mind, returning the body of one Nicholas Lundt to the refrigerated drawers, when she heard the door to the morgue open. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw the pristine figure of Mycroft Holmes poised just inside the door, evidently not interested in getting much closer to the bodies.

"Doctor Hooper, when you have a moment," he said, giving her a tight smile.

"I'm finished," Molly replied with a nod towards the drawers. She pulled off her gloves and disposed of them, walking towards the wash station to clean up. "What can I do for you?"

"Just a few questions answered, if you don't mind. For clarification," Mycroft said, stepping forward. Molly looked at him in slight confusion.

"Sure," she agreed slowly, looking down at her soapy hands again as she began to rinse them off.

"Were you and my brother engaged in a physical relationship prior to last night?"

Her head snapped up and she stared at him in utter shock.

"How – how the hell - "

"Sherlock either doesn't know or doesn't care about the CCTV feed we have from Baker Street. I would say he doesn't care, but when it comes to you, my brother can be a bit blind," Mycroft informed her nonchalantly. "I can assure you, the footage from the lounge was discreetly handled and deleted soon after I was informed of its existence this morning. And before you begin to worry, no, we do not have your flat under surveillance. At least, not the interior."

It took physical effort to pull her jaw closed and force words from her mouth. She wanted to shove him and concurrently sink through the floor from embarrassment. Rinsing the remainder of the soap from her hands, she shut the tap off forcefully and shook her hands out. Water spattered against the metal walls of the sink and onto her trousers.

"I don't think that's any of your business," she said, her mouth feeling horribly dry.

"When it has to do with Sherlock and sentiment, I am afraid to say it is very much my business."

"Why don't you just ask him, then?"

Mycroft let out a small chuckle, smiling in a humoring way.

"He's already broadcast all there is to know about his side of things," he said patiently. "My intention in coming here is to protect not only Sherlock, but you as well. To warn you before things have gone too far."

"To warn me?" she repeated, offended. "About what? I know Sherlock. Very well."

"Yes, I expect you do," Mycroft said earnestly. "That does not mean you can always act objectively when it comes to him."

"What do you mean?" she demanded uneasily.

"He's an addict, Doctor Hooper."

"I know that."

"John Watson is his enabler," Mycroft said, his head tipping to the side. "What does that make you in his life?"

Molly felt her stomach tighten. She didn't like where the conversation was going or what he seemed to be implying.

"I'm not his replacement for anything," she argued. "I told him I wouldn't be - "

"It hardly matters what you told him. Do you think he makes these decisions consciously? He's as vulnerable to these patterns as the next person."

"I wouldn't – wouldn't be with him if that's what was going on," she insisted, crossing her arms over her stomach.

"Mm," he replied, considering her. "Your father was a police officer, if I'm not mistaken – wounded in the line of duty and put at a desk until his retirement? Passed away from liver cancer eight years ago. He didn't qualify for a transplant..."

"My dad was not an alcoholic," Molly said through her teeth, feeling her cheeks flame as she realized what he was insinuating. "He was a good, brave man."

"Yes, and our mother is a peculiar, flighty mathematician who doted too much on Sherlock and to this day is the only person who can control him. As I said, we all fall victim to the patterns of life."

"Mycroft," she said firmly, trying to keep her voice calm and clearly starling him with the casual use of his first name. "I know we haven't exactly got on. I mean, there may have been some misunderstandings in the past…my point is, I know you're looking out for him. A-and me. But you don't need to _warn_ me about anything."

The elder Holmes looked at her silently, his eyes still and assessing just as Sherlock's often were. It was easy to see where Sherlock had picked up his quirks of deduction.

"Molly, I can count on one hand the amount of times my brother has openly fallen victim to sentiment – true sentiment, the kind that spins his mind away from seeing the world clearly," Mycroft started, looking regretful at having to divulge the information. "A girl who lived in a cottage near ours when he was just on the cusp of manhood. A young man during his university days who led to some of his more unsavory habits and the decision that mind matters so much more than body. Irene Adler pushed him to the edge of those days again. The loss of John Watson's friendship…his marriage, your engagement, signaled the end of the perfect little world he'd constructed and you saw what happened there. He does not handle change well. He craves validation and attachment, no matter the image he projects to the world. Are you truly prepared to take that on?"

Molly swallowed hard. She knew these things about Sherlock – perhaps not the more personal stories, the relationships of his past that were his to tell if he ever felt inclined, but the person behind the façade of Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, she was highly aware of. She knew the man that laid down next to her more nights than she could keep track of, reaching out for her hand, her waist, anything to touch that would connect her to him. She knew he had demons he was still fighting, but really, who didn't? She knew unequivocally who she was involved with.

Out of sheer stubbornness, Molly did not answer Mycroft's question. She couldn't bring herself to dignify it with a response. Instead, she stared at him, her mouth set with determination. His eyebrows lifted ever so slightly, but he nodded his head, hummed in curiosity, and turned to leave the morgue.


	10. Chapter 10

Molly felt nervous as the lift rose in her building, taking her up towards her flat. It infuriated her that Mycroft had managed to leave her unnerved, questioning her motivation, Sherlock's motivation. And the prying, going behind his brother's back and attempting to sabotage his happiness. Maybe it was presumptuous of her to feel she knew Sherlock was finally settling into contentedness, despite the barriers he set in his own way, but she'd never seen him so open to the love and friendship those around him were willing to give. She would never be able to comprehend what drove Mycroft to micromanage Sherlock's life and emotions.

And to bring up her _father_ , to try to inflate the vices that had never, ever made him less of a professional or a loving, supportive father, was so off base. So incredibly off the mark. The doctors had made it clear what the cause of the cancer was, but when comparing indulgence to causation, they told the family he had fallen victim to pure bad luck. He had not been a drunk. He'd had it under control…

Molly stopped short in the hall, keys dangling from her fingers.

"Oh god…"

No… There was no possible way Mycroft could be right. Alcohol and heroin…not even comparable. Alcohol in moderation was fine, normal. Heroin in moderation was still getting high, still abusing.

And where did that leave her? Having to validate being with someone who was categorically worse than her dad?

She shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts before she went inside.

Everything was fine. Sherlock was doing so much better, back to solving cases at a superhuman rate and making huge efforts to be less difficult. The most dreadful thing that could happen would be for the people around him to start doubting how great he could be. Unlike Mycroft, Molly would not act like every step he made in the right direction was doomed to fail. She wasn't going to tolerate any regression on his part, but berating him before he even had the chance to prove himself was something she would never do.

Working her hand back into motion, she reached for the door and unlocked it, stepping quickly into her flat. Sherlock was on her sofa, his feet propped on her coffee table with Toby settled happily on top of his shins. His coat was pulled tightly around his torso and he was focused intently on his phone.

He was easily the most complicated person she'd ever met, and for some reason she was out of her mind in love with him.

"Picked up Toby from your neighbor this afternoon," he told her quickly. "He looked a little overfed so I lightened his dinner. Ordered some dumplings and rice, should be here any minute. John keeps texting – _ab_ solutely tedious – demanding to know if there's anything else going on he should know about. I told him he could pick the next case, but that doesn't seem to be the right way to apologize. Is there something else I should do?"

Ah yes, that was why she loved him. That was exactly why.

She tossed her keys and bag on the dining table and shrugged out of her coat.

"How can your brother have the audacity to be the way he is?" she asked, walking into the lounge and planting her hands on her hips.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, glancing around before looking at her again.

"This is not related to apologizing to John, is it?" he said.

"Mycroft came into the morgue today - "

"Ah."

" – to warn me about being with you," she said angrily, feeling everything from earlier well up again. "Is he so unsatisfied with his life, does he have that many control issues that he has to treat you like a, a rebellious five year old?"

"Mm, wouldn't be the first time someone has treated me like that."

"Doesn't it bother you, Sherlock?" she asked, not understanding his flippancy. "Doesn't it drive you crazy to have him shoving his nose into your personal life all the time?"

Sherlock looked at her and she knew he was analyzing what had really gone on during her shift. He clicked his phone off and put it in his coat pocket, reaching forward to lift Toby off of his legs. The poor cat woke up with a startled look mid-lift, stretching his legs out to prepare for his landing on the floor and then trotting off into her bedroom. In a few strides, Sherlock was right in front of her.

"What did he say to you?" he asked calmly.

"That – that you're using me to replace your addictions. And apparently I'm in love with you because my dad died from liver cancer," she told him sardonically, her eyes darting away from his as he continued to watch her. "Oh, and he assured me the video footage from last night was destroyed."

"CCTV?"

"Yes."

"I've been behind in sweeping the flat for his bugs. Dammit," he bit out.

Molly shifted fretfully, fearing that he would brush the entire thing off.

"And the rest of it?" she asked him.

"He's an idiot if he thinks I'm replacing anything with you. That's what the cases are for."

"Sherlock," she snapped, her mouth pulling tight as she shot him a look.

"I've been clean since getting shot, Molly," he told her vehemently, stepping closer to her. "You know I have."

"I know," she said, nodding quickly.

"I'm not planning on changing that fact," Sherlock said. "Do you honestly think your dad has anything to do with wanting to be with me?"

"No, not really," she admitted.

"Then there's nothing more to be concerned about, it's settled."

Molly took a breath and hesitated, her hands clasping together.

"It's not that simple…"

"It doesn't have to be that complicated either," he said with a sigh. "Childhood is highly influential on the selection of significant others later in life, but your father didn't enter the stage of his drinking that contributed to his cancer until you had left for Uni. The chances of influence are minuscule. If anything, you're inclined to seek out ambitious men with a strong sense of justice…in which case, thank you for the compliment."

She let out a small laugh, partly amused at watching him follow his own line of logic. Rubbing the back of her neck, she looked up at him.

"So…are you keen to be with a quirky mathematician who likes to boss you around?" she asked.

"You are describing my mother."

"I am."

"No. I have no desire to bring any of my family members into my relationships," he told her with a smirk. "I prefer odd pathologists with a strong right hook."

"Good," Molly agreed, stepping into his personal space and smoothing her hands up the front of his shirt. "Because I prefer obsessive consulting detectives with short attention spans."

"Hm," he replied, eyes darting over her face before landing on her mouth.

Molly felt a ripple of energy spread from her belly as he leaned down and pressed his lips firmly to hers, his skin smooth as velvet. His arms wound about her waist, pulling her close.

Her intercom buzzer sounded shrilly, signaling the arrival of their food delivery at the front door. What sounded like a low growl emitted from Sherlock's throat and he barely pulled his mouth away from hers

"Food's here," she whispered.

"I don't really need to eat."

Molly laughed and leaned up to press one more kiss to his mouth.

"Well," she said. "I do."

The sustenance turned out to be very much needed as Sherlock led her to the bedroom after dinner, stripping the clothes away from her body, then his, and sitting on the center of the bed, pulling her into his lap. She joined him eagerly, loving the feeling of him rubbing against her clit as he reached for the band holding her hair up, slowly sliding it away and letting her hair fall free. One of the benefits of being at the start of a new relationship was constantly feeling ready to fall into bed, wanting to be joined immediately – not that she would ever not be ready for Sherlock; his very voice seemed capable of sending heat pooling between her legs.

With his lips caressing the side of her neck, making her eyes practically roll back in her head, Molly had to concentrate incredibly hard on reaching for the box of condoms in her bedside table. She ripped open the foil impatiently and reached for him, taking a moment to enjoy the hot, silky feel of him before rolling the latex on. Lifting her hips, she positioned him and lowered herself, humming as he filled her. Length-wise, he probably fell into the category of average, but his girth was something that hit buttons no one had ever managed to before. It felt amazing.

"God, Molly," Sherlock groaned, rocking into her and wrapping his arms around her back.

Apparently he felt the same way.

Her hands slid up his lean, toned arms and around his shoulders, holding on as his hands lowered to her hips, encouraging her to start moving. She obliged, helped by his hands on her arse, riding him until they both shuddered with pleasure.

* * *

 

Molly's place was noisier than Sherlock's was. She lived on a busier road and cars often drove by throughout the night. Being three floors up, it wasn't as distracting as it could have been. At the very least, they were spared the bright intrusion of headlights as the cars passed by. Her room was dimly lit by outside ambient light, making it easy to watch her while she slept, tucked contentedly against his side. Two nights of disturbed sleep, a full shift in the morgue, and a full belly caught up with her and she had passed out fairly quickly after their love making.

The more he was with her, the more he wanted her. The chemicals of love were working well, increasing the bond they already had and encouraging the trust he already placed in her. He had extraordinary self-control, but even Sherlock could not regulate the chemistry of his own body – the surge of dopamine, vasopressin, and oxytocin. Logically, he knew what was happening to him. It was practically a parlor trick.

That didn't mean his already protective nature didn't spike through the roof at the thought of his brother trying to destroy yet another personal connection.

Moving gently, he grabbed his phone from the bedside table and turned it on, punching out a text with one hand.

_Brother mine, if you ever speak to her that way again, I will raise a hell the likes of which you have never seen – SH_

_Merely looking out for the interests of all parties involved. You and I both know you're capable of ruining her. And she, you._

_My warning stands - SH_

* * *

 

With Molly at work for the day, Sherlock threw himself into a new project at Baker Street: pigment and chemical makeup of different kinds of ink. Though he had a wealth of knowledge filed away already, a well categorized list on his blog would be advantageous. He had been at it for four hours when he heard knocking.

"Sherlock? You in?" John called from the hall.

"The door is open, John," Sherlock sighed, putting down the latest strip of pigment paper.

"Yeah, well, after yesterday, I figured a little caution was in order," John said as he rounded the corner into the kitchen.

Sherlock held his hands up, confused.

"If the door is open, what do you think you'd be walking in on?"

"Oh-ho," John laughed, looking doubtful. "It would not surprise me in the slightest if you just…didn't close the door."

"Molly is at Bart's," he explained slowly, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair. "Your virtuous eyes are safe."

"Right," John said with a smile, reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out his phone. "Got something you might be interested in…that is, if you're taking cases."

"Why would I not be?"

"Dunno," John shrugged, pulling up the information on his phone. "Spending more time with Molly now that you're…doing…things. Getting to know each other."

"I don't need to reserve time to get to know Molly, I spend plenty of time with her already. We've been sleeping together for months," Sherlock told him, reaching for another pen to start a new ink test.

John shot him a confused look.

"I thought all of this just started," he said.

"The intercourse, yes," Sherlock said calmly, ignoring the disgusted wince from John. He drew the pen across a strip of paper and primly replaced the cap. "I've been _sleeping_ at her place for months."

"Yeah, moving on," John said with a shake of his head. "Got an email from a woman in Hoxton whose seventeen-year-old daughter ran away from home eight months ago - "

"Boring."

"No, hang on, she ran away eight months ago and her mother, Susan Fisher, called in a missing person's report. Police found her living with a friend in Hamstead. They wouldn't look into it after that because the daughter was calling home and sending letters, telling her mother she was alright - "

"Boooring."

"Would you just – her mother is a psychic."

Sherlock paused in the process of filling a beaker with water, his eyes flicking up.

"A psychic?" he asked, his interest slightly piqued.

John made a relieved face, taking a breath before continuing on.

"She swears that she had a vision and knows that her daughter is dead, but she's still getting the phone messages and letters," he told Sherlock.

"The girl is probably embarrassed by her mother, she wants to be left alone to start a new life, but she doesn't want to hurt her. Where's the mystery?"

"That's what the police assumed, too," John said, reading the rest of the email on his phone. "So, on a hunch, Susan paid for a lab to analyze the DNA on the latest letters. They all contained solely male DNA."

"Boyfriend. The police can verify."

"She's done with the police," John said, pocketing his phone. "She only wants you. Says she has a 'good feeling.'"

"Nope."

"Why not?"

"I'm not wasting my time on a family feud case with no real crime," Sherlock said firmly, picking up the pigment paper and poising it over the water. "Call me when a real case comes in."

John shifted his weight and looked at the ground.

"At least meet with her. See what she has to say," he entreated.

"I don't think so."

"Well, you have to," John told him with a nod. "I told her to meet us here, she should be arriving any minute."

"You did what?" Sherlock said, his lip curling slightly as he looked at John.

"You said I could pick the next case," John said quickly, pointing a finger at his friend.

Sherlock blinked, gritting his teeth. The doorbell rang and he glanced in the direction of the noise, putting down the pigment paper and the beaker of water.

"Fine," he snipped, standing up to walk haughtily to his chair and plopping down in it.

John grinned and walked down the stairs to let their client in. A few moments later, a short, middle aged woman walked in, looking somewhat less eccentric than Sherlock would have expected. Her greying hair fell in waves halfway down her back and she wore faded jeans, a multi-colored blouse, and a green cardigan. She had a variety of rings on her fingers in different gems and metals and a necklace with a pendant Sherlock recognized as a moonstone. His nose twitched a bit as she approached him, smiling – she smelled strongly of herbs.

"You're Sherlock Holmes," she said reverently, holding his gaze for a moment before turning to John. "And John Watson."

"Yeah, please, sit down," John said, gesturing to the ottoman and taking his old seat.

"Mr. Holmes," Susan began, looking more serious. "My daughter is dead. I know this. I also know you're going to be the one to find out what happened."

"Ms. Fisher, there is no body, no one has reported her missing, no real crime has been committed that I can see," Sherlock said, stretching his fingers out over the arms of his chair. "What makes you so certain anything is wrong?"

"I know it. I can see it," Susan said, tapping the space over her heart with the fingers of her right hand. Sherlock sucked in a breath through his teeth.

"That's not much for me to go on," he said.

"Find out where she was living – the police know, but they wouldn't tell me – and go there. Please. I know something is wrong."

Her voice dropped the ethereal quality it had held since she started talking, becoming a soft plea. John glanced at Sherlock, his brow drawn in concern. Sherlock knew that look. It was the look that said John was already invested in a client, feeling sorry for them, and would harp on him until he did something.

He never should have allowed him to pick a case.

"Fine," Sherlock said with a nod. "We'll look into it right away."

* * *

 

Molly pushed her way out of the morgue, reviewing the list on her clipboard and happily crossing off the second to last name. Three post-mortems in one day and she was going to be lucky if she managed to finish the last one without staying overtime. She pushed at the strands of hair that had escaped her plait and fallen into her face, letting out a tired breath. As she passed the corridor to the lab, her co-worker, Daphne, came around the corner and joined her in walking down the hall.

"Alright, Molly?" she said with a smile, her arms occupied with a box of supplies. Daphne was taller than her, athletic, a few years younger, and probably one of the friendliest people who worked in the pathology department. Her curling blonde hair emphasized her constantly sunny disposition.

"Fine, thanks," Molly said.

"I heard you spent a few days fighting crime," Daphne said eagerly. "Fun, was it?"

"Oh, um, very glamorous," Molly replied with a laugh, thinking she never wanted to go anywhere near a tent or a mountain or campground again. Her phone chirped in her pocket and she gave Daphne an apologetic smile, pulling it out to read the message.

_Out on a case. Won't be over tonight. Possibly not tomorrow either. Will text – SH_

She sighed and typed in a quick reply of understanding.

"Everything okay?" Daphne asked.

"Yeah," Molly said, tucking her phone back into her coat pocket. "Plans for the night just got canceled."

"Boyfriend?"

"Um…sort of," she said, her brow wrinkling as she realized they had never really defined what they were to each other. Boyfriend sounded like such a casual word when it came to what Sherlock meant to her and she had the feeling he wouldn't be fond of the endearment either.

"That's the way with them, isn't it?" Daphne said with a sympathetic look. "Always leaving you high and dry."

"He's got a good excuse. I think," she explained. "He's a detective."

"Oh," Daphne said, her eyes opening wide and turning her head to look at Molly in surprise. "Oh! Is it that chap with the coat, comes in here like he owns the place? Voice like a panther?"

"That's him," Molly muttered, ducking her head slightly and feeling her cheeks warm. Daphne smiled knowingly at her.

"You come find me when your shift is over," she told her. "We're going to the pub."

Molly could hardly argue with that line of thinking.


	11. Chapter 11

Molly hadn't expected the pub meet-up to turn into a small gathering of work colleagues. She felt slightly guilty when she realized how long it had been since she'd spent any time outside of Bart's with Meena and Jacqueline, and she'd never had the opportunity to spend time with Daphne since she'd joined the staff. As it turned out, they were all interested in her little venture into crime solving – not just in Keswick, but her small day helping Sherlock when he'd first returned as well. She had been unaware of the staff fascination with their connection.

"How many did you send to jail exactly?" Jacqueline asked, brushing the tight strands of dark curls out of her face as she took another drink of her wine.

"Three," Molly answered. "But it wasn't me, really, to be honest. Just along to help."

"Not likely," Jacqueline said. "You've got more skill with evidence than anyone in Bart's."

"He wouldn't be nearly as famous as he is without you," Meena chimed in. "Refuses to work with anyone else – not that anyone else would tolerate him. He likes you."

"Well he's her boyfriend, yeah?" Daphne added, looking to the others as though it were common knowledge.

Molly felt her face warm and she looked down into her wine glass as Meena and Jacqueline turned to stare at her with wide eyes. They had been aware of Molly's feelings for Sherlock for years. They had also been aware that her attempts to get over him when he seemed to not return her affections had always gone wrong somehow. It must have been an interesting drama to watch, with Sherlock returning to her side again and again, in need of her help, and Molly going above and beyond because she worshipped his genius, all while quietly pining for him in various levels of want.

"Molly Hooper," Meena exclaimed. "What have you been keeping from us?"

Molly hesitated.

"It's…sort of new," she tried to explain. "But yeah…"

"Fucking hell!" Meena grinned.

"Are you seriously telling me that you and that man are actually an item?" Jacqueline said with disbelief.

Daphne looked at Molly sheepishly.

"Sorry, I thought they knew," she offered as an apology.

"S'okay," Molly said. "It'll probably make it to the gossip mags at some point anyway. It always does, with him."

"I need another drink," Meena declared, raising her arm to flag down a waiter. "Molly, another for you? You're dating the consulting detective now, you might need it."

Looking down into her glass again, seeing the wine almost gone, Molly paused.

"No, thank you," she said. "One's fine."

"Did you see they have new fume hoods in the third floor lab?" Meena said indignantly after ordering her drink. "And after they got new scopes last year, too. Still working with old scratched lenses in path and they get shiny new toys."

Molly breathed a little easier at the change of subject. It wasn't that she wished to avoid talking about Sherlock, but when faced with trying to explain the unorthodox nature of their relationship, she felt cautious. It wasn't anything that would be seen in a romantic film or considered normal by most people. She had no grand hopes of a passionate proposal of marriage or, at the moment, even keeping a plan to spend an evening together. Would it ever be possible to explain to others that she was actually fine with that because Sherlock Holmes showed his loyalties in other ways? That maybe she wanted it that way after years of chasing the alternative and being disappointed?

"They keep my instruments sharp and new," Molly said, joining the conversation underway. "I'm happy for that. Nothing like cutting into a dead body with a dull scalpel."

A passing patron caught her words and turned to look at the group with a horrified expression before moving on quickly. Molly ducked her head and smirked as the others started laughing.

"Well," Jacqueline said, wiping away tears of laughter from the corners of her eyes. "At least the hospital had the decency to extend the invitations to general staff for the gala this year. That's something."

"What?" Molly asked, draining the last of her wine with a smile.

"Didn't you get the invitation?" Daphne said. "The higher ups decided to grace us underlings with the opportunity to brush elbows."

"Came in the post a few days ago," Meena clarified and looked at Molly with a grin. "You'll have the most popular date there, I suspect."

"I must – must have missed the invitation while I was gone," Molly said, trying to wrap her head around the idea of attending such an event with Sherlock. She'd completely forgotten to collect her mail from the post office, having had it held while she traveled.

Sure enough, when she went the next morning, there was the formal invitation to the gala. It was short notice – less than a week away – and she suspected the board had realized they could afford to invite the lesser employees at the last minute. Her nose scrunched up as she stared at the card. She hated the way bureaucracy worked at times.

Her eyes drifted down to the dress code. Black tie.

_Oh dear_.

* * *

 

Sherlock strode swiftly down the pavement in Hampstead, eager to find the address Lestrade had gifted him with and be done with the ridiculous case. A teenaged girl who'd tired of her mother making foolish predictions and readings about her friends when they'd come to the family flat, but unable to turn her back on the only family she'd ever known, the person who'd put a roof over her head and food on her plate. There was plenty of guilt there and plenty of sentiment keeping her from cutting ties completely. Old enough to claim independence, but young enough for a mother to want to claim control.

He heard John's rapid footsteps alongside him, stepping quicker in order to keep up with him. He hated to disappoint him in his enthusiasm for the case, but, as he saw it, there was nothing to be found.

Seeing the building number they sought, Sherlock hopped up the steps quickly and rang the bell. After a few moments, the intercom crackled to life.

"Yeah?" a female voice answered.

"Sherlock Holmes, with Scotland Yard, may we have a moment of your time?" he said, seeing no point in trying to trick his way into talking to anyone.

"What'sit about?" the girl asked.

"Lillian Fisher."

There was silence from the intercom. John moved in and pressed the button.

"Her mum's worried, we just need to ask a few questions," he said coaxingly.

The door unlatched a few seconds later and Sherlock quickly pushed it open, hurrying up the stairs to find the flat. On the second floor, there was a girl waiting inside the doorway of one of the flats, arms crossed over her stomach and weight shifted casually onto one leg. She wore form fitting pants with a floral pattern and a white blouse. Her brown hair was cut short and brushed out of her face.

"Lillian's not 'ere," she told them as they approached. "I'm Bridget, what can I help you with?"

"John Watson," John introduced himself and showed her his military ID. "We're just checking up, making sure she's okay."

"Her mother seems to be under the impression that she's in some sort of danger," Sherlock said. "Can you tell us where we can find her?"

"She's fine, but she left a week ago, said she was goin' to her boyfriend's place for a bit," Bridget said with a shrug. "Dunno where it is."

"Yes you do," Sherlock corrected. Bridget raised an eyebrow. "Young girls flat sharing in the city, you share this information. We have no intentions of telling her mother about her location, just to ensure that she's safe. Now, where is she?"

Bridget let out a little grumble and disappeared into the flat, returning a moment later with a notepad that had various telephone numbers and addresses written on it. She thrust it at Sherlock.

"Third one down," she said. "If her mum finds out, I'm dead, okay?"

"Won't say a word," John promised as he followed Sherlock down the hall.

There was something off about the address in Sherlock's mind, something that sent a feeling of uncertainty through him as they took a cab to the location. It was a part of London he admitted he was not as familiar with, but a nagging in his brain told him there was something wrong about a residence in the area.

As soon as they turned down the street, he understood why. There wasn't a single residential building in sight, only warehouses and mechanic shops. The cabbie pulled to a stop in front of a grey stone building with a garage door as its only entrance. A padlock was secured to the door and 'for rent' sign plastered to the front.

"This is your stop, mates," the cabbie said.

"This cannot be right," John said as he peered out the window at the building. "You sure this is the address?"

"Positive," Sherlock said, reaching into his coat pocket for money to pay the cabbie before climbing out of the vehicle.

The cab took off and Sherlock stared at the door for a moment before having a go at the padlock, knowing John would keep a lookout. After two tries, the lock sprung open and Sherlock quickly wrenched the door open to let them in. The garage was musty and poorly lit, with oil stains on the cement floor and old crates stacked along the walls. His eyes flicked around the room, trying to assess if they had been misled or if there was more to this than he had expected.

"What do make of it, John?" he asked as he walked around the space.

"Not much to it," John replied. "Could be used for storage…staging area for smuggling, maybe? Drugs?"

"Hm."

Sherlock dismissed the likelihood that that space was used for anything as innocuous as storage. Lillian Fisher did not seem like the type to get involved in drugs, necessarily. But smuggling…perhaps.

He stopped short on his turn about the space, his nostrils catching an odor that didn't belong. Sniffing carefully, he walked closer to a stack of crates, noticing a dark stain on the wood. Leaning close, the scent became clear.

"Liquor," he declared. "Vodka, spilled onto the crates."

"So…they came here to let loose, have parties?" John posited.

Sherlock's nose wrinkled and he tipped his head to the side, not ruling out the idea but not entirely happy with it either. The location was in enough of a residential desert that he could believe a group of young people would be able to throw parties on the right night and not be caught.

"But why would Lillian's flat mate think this was her boyfriend's place?" he wondered out loud. "And why would she never be invited, no, it doesn't make sense, that doesn't add up. There's fresh motor oil on the ground here…and here, and the door is well used, people have been moving in and out."

Having decided there was nothing more to see in the space, he led them quickly back out of the garage and onto the street, walking briskly to the next block to hail a cab. His mind started to process and save what he had seen as they rode back to Lillian Fisher's flat, latching onto the strangeness and inconsistencies. Those elements, more than anything else, were what pulled him in. He was either being lied to or there was something deeper going on. Either way, he wanted it resolved.

Bridget answered the intercom on the first buzz.

"Do you make a habit of lying to people?" Sherlock said accusatorily.

There was a moment of silence and then the door to the building unlatched. She was again waiting for them in the doorway of the flat.

"I wasn't lying," she told them as they advanced on her. "That's the place she goes to meet 'im."

"Who?" John asked.

"I've only met 'im once," she said. "His name is Kostya. I went with Lillian one time…it was a buncha idiots drinkin' in a garage and getting' high. They had a van they all started to pile into, but I didn't go with 'em. I went  _home_. Whatever it was they were going to get up to, I wasn't interested."

"She's got her own room here?" John asked. Bridget nodded. "Mind if we take a look around?"

Bridget stepped to the side and gestured irritably towards the inside of the flat. She looked as though she had been expecting trouble to follow whatever it was Lillian was involved in, annoyed that she was the one to have to deal with the fallout. Sherlock walked into the tiny flat, quickly taking in the details of space. It was cramped, but not messy.

"It's the room on the left," Bridget told them.

Lillian Fisher was an exceptionally organized, fussy individual. The small room contained only a bed, a side table, and a small bookshelf. None of the surfaces were cluttered and every item was carefully placed. A lifetime of growing up with a woman who was absent minded and no doubt unconcerned with order had left its mark.

Sherlock began to inspect the room, pulling open the closet doors, peering at the books and knickknacks on the bookshelf. There were enough clothes and personal items left to convince him that Lillian had not up and left. In the drawer of the side table he found stationary, envelopes, and a notebook for tracking funds. He held the detailed tracker up for John to see.

"Column on the left, money coming in," he explained. "Dates, but no indication of the source. Column on the right, funds deducted. Same amount every week."

"She was making a pretty penny," John said. "And still living in this sardine can?"

"What are you up to," Sherlock muttered, staring at the entries.

* * *

 

"Drugs, smuggling, or prostitution," Mary told them as they all sat in the lounge of the Watson's home that evening. She was relaxed into the plush rocking chair across from the sofa, Joanna nestled against her chest and fast asleep.

"Her flatmate did say they were getting high when she went to the garage with them," John agreed from his spot on the sofa.

Sherlock paced in the empty space by the mantel, his expression one of uncertainty.

"It's not going through her flat if that's the case," he said. He knew what to look for when it came to hiding substances, using or not. "The place was clean."

"Smuggling then?" John asked.

"No word on any new movement in that profession from my sources, though I won't rule it out," Sherlock replied.

"Well that leaves the oldest profession," Mary said with a downturn of her lips. "It would explain the money movement."

"It would, but so would any number of other things. There's not enough there, I need to find out where she  _went_ , where she's disappeared to, the whole thing is too clean for it not to be complicated on the other end!" Sherlock exclaimed in frustration.

Mary shot him an incredulous look.

"Oi," she said, gesturing to Joanna. "Sleeping infant here."

Sherlock shook his head and grimaced.

"Sorry."

"Have you tried tracking her mobile?" Mary asked.

"Gave it a shot at Scotland Yard," John told her. "No luck."

"What about the letters?" she pushed on.

"What about them?" Sherlock said, glancing at her.

"Have you tried tracking them?" she inquired. Sherlock stopped his pacing and stared at her. Mary sighed. "Mr. Technology over here…you do know you can find out where a letter was mailed from. And if it wasn't mailed from her flat - "

"We can narrow down where she's been going," Sherlock said quickly.

He turned on his heel and strode out of the room towards the front door, Mary's call of, "You're welcome!" barely registering. He didn't bother to wait to see if John was following, having come to expect his friend to put his priorities at home during the evening hours. A cab was quickly flagged down and he was on his way to Hoxton, unconcerned with the hour of the evening as he bounded up to Susan Fisher's flat and rang the bell.

She answered cautiously, looking slightly worried to see him on her doorstep.

"I need all the letters," he announced.

"The letters?"

"Yes, your daughter's letters, with the envelopes, all of them, now please," he said, his impatient tone belying the polite words. "Especially the recent ones."

* * *

 

The sun had risen by the time Sherlock was done with every shred of evidence he could manage to pull from the letters at Baker Street, thoroughly exhausting the search capacity of the internet when it came to London postal codes stamped on the envelopes. After the painstaking process, he'd managed to determine that, until two months prior, all the letters had been mailed from Hampstead. Then, suddenly, they were mailed from a PO Box in Westminster. The damned post office had been completely unhelpful when he'd called to inquire about the situation. Apparently, he was not authorized to receive that sort of private information.

Staring at the pile of post sitting in front of him on his coffee table, he registered the approach of Mrs. Hudson before he heard her cheerful little call and a slight knock at the door.

"Tea for one this morning, Sherlock?" she asked as she hovered in the doorway. "I figured I should start asking, seeing as how Molly has finally started staying over."

"Yes, fine, good," he replied without enthusiasm.

"I'd no idea that's where you were off to all those nights," she said, beginning to ramble. "She's a nice one. Plenty of patience, which is good for your sake. After John, you need someone strong like that."

"Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock muttered. "Please kindly tell me you are not still under the impression that John and I were an item."

She raised her hands in a gesture of innocence and shrugged.

"I don't judge, dear."

"You also don't observe. Stop believing what you read in the gossip column and understand that John Watson has always been, and always will be, my  _friend_. Molly is the one I happen to be sharing my bed with."

"Well count your blessing there," Mrs. Hudson advised as she turned to go back to her flat. "I can't imagine you'd attend the gala any other way."

"The what?"

"Hospital gala on Friday," she repeated, pausing on the landing. "John and Mary told me all about it when they popped by for a visit a few days ago. Sounds like a wonderful evening! Won't be a minute with your tea."

Sherlock watched her disappear down the stairs, humming as she went.

Molly hadn't mentioned a thing about a gala. Not that he was interested, he despised events of that sort. He despised events of most sorts. If John was invited, surely Molly was, too.

He didn't have time to stop for a gala when he had a case on.

Looking back to the pile of letters once more, knowing full well he was at a standstill with trying to find Lillian Fisher's whereabouts without calling in help from Scotland Yard or doing something highly illegal, he weighed his options. One text to Lestrade and he could have the information for the PO Box, if he worded it just right. It could put the whole thing to rest rather quickly and leave him to contemplate the gala situation.

If Molly brought it up at all, that was.


	12. Chapter 12

"Look, Sherlock, I can't request the information for the owner of a PO Box without reasonable cause," Lestrade lectured as he signed off on paperwork at his desk, Sergeant Donovan at his elbow. "What her flatmate told you doesn't justify a search."

"And the fact that she's been unaccounted for for well over a week?" Sherlock pressed, feeling determined to get somewhere.

"I can't do anything for you," Lestrade said. "Short of standing at the post office and waiting for the right person to show up before following them home, you're out of luck. And you might get the police called on you doing that."

" _I'd_  call the police on you," Sally quipped.

"You  _did_  call the police on me, as I recall," Sherlock said, turning an appreciative eye on her.

She smiled at him and nodded her head.

"If you two are done reminiscing over old times," Lestrade interrupted. "We have a phone record of a call made to the mother from her mobile four days ago. No one seems to think anything is wrong other than dear mummy."

"You know, the idea of waiting at the post box is starting to sound rather promising," Sherlock said slowly, exaggerating an expression of contemplation.

"Oh my god," Lestrade grumbled, dropping his head into his hand. "I'll tell you what…if no one has heard from her in forty-eight hours, I will give you the authority to check the box. Hell, I'll be there with you. Right?"

Sherlock gave him a tight lipped smile.

"Reasonable," he said, nodding to Sally before turning to leave the office.

Reasonable, but not ideal. If he was a betting man, he would put money on finding Lillian involved in something illicit. She was getting the income from somewhere and he knew it wasn't from a company check. If she was spending the money on herself, there was no indication of it at the flat in Hampstead. Which could only mean a separate location existed where she spent her time, enough time to make it worthwhile to invest her earnings, if she wasn't hoarding the money.

Two days and he would be able to find out where that location was. What to do in the meantime?

His mind flashed to a refrigerator empty of experiments. It had been a while since he'd begged anything from Bart's and he could certainly do with the distraction of a nice, long decomp project. There was the added benefit of seeing Molly, as well.

The corner of his mouth turned up and his chest warmed at the thought of her. He imagined she would be elbows deep in a body cavity at that moment. Or perhaps busy at work in the lab, her face screwed up in the charming way she had as she carefully prepared a wet slide, biting her lip as she concentrated. He'd seen the little quirk a hundred times before, but now that he knew she also did it during the throws of passion, he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to casually observe it in the lab again.

Only one way to find out.

He found her in the morgue, right in the middle of taking tissue samples from a heart.

"Diseased?" he inquired, looking with interest at the specimen.

"That's the prevailing thought," she murmured, highly focused on her task and not sparing a glance at him. "The family wanted verification. They thought he was healthy."

Sherlock looked over at the body lying a few yards away on a metal gurney.

"Thirty kilos overweight and smoker," he observed, narrowing his eyes as they flicked over the exposed parts of the body. "What part of that is healthy?"

Molly smirked and finally looked up at him.

"People see what they want to see. He could keep up with the grandkids, therefore he was healthy. He had a lot of love to give, so how could his heart be diseased?" she finished as she sliced into the organ once more.

Sherlock held back a wince.

"Any spare bits you need taken off your hands?" he asked, choosing to ignore the metaphor lurking behind her words and actions. And the possible personal joshing.

"What happened to your case?" she said, setting her samples to the side and scooping up the heart, turning around to bring it back to the cadaver.

"Slight delay," he explained as he followed, lacing his fingers behind his back.

"I think I might have something from a donated body we used for a class yesterday," she told him with a smile. "What do you need?"

"Something with longevity," he said, mulling it over. "Two days…maybe more. Unless…"

"Unless what?"

"Unless," he said, drawing the word out. He wasn't used to fishing for information. He was used to demanding it. "Unless there might be something else to occupy some time."

"I think it's a given that you can come to mine anytime you like, now, Sherlock," she said, her smile increasing as she made sure everything was in place before beginning the process of putting the body back together.

"Not…not quite what I meant, but good to know," he said, his mouth pulling tight. "However, I was referring to this…gala that seems to be happening."

Molly stilled and looked up at him, her features slightly distorted by the safety mask she had pulled into place. There was no surprise in her expression, but he saw a great deal of uncertainty. She shifted the tiniest bit and the glare from the florescent lights bounced off of the mask, hiding most of her face from his sight.

"I wasn't sure you'd be interested," she confessed. "Posh social event right in the middle of your case - "

"I believe John is going," he announced, the idea only halfway formulated in his mind as he started speaking. "Taking Mary, I presume. You'll be going?"

"I – I figured I would," she said.

"Lacking any other suitable options for an assistant added to the fact that my investigation is currently frozen, I see no reason not to attend," he said, hoping he sounded far more confident than he felt.

Molly's nose crinkled as she smirked.

"Did you just ask yourself to the gala for me? And accept?" she said.

"Well you were taking forever to do it," he reasoned, no longer able to hold back a small smile.

"So you'll go with me?"

"Naturally," he said firmly. Under the plastic safety guard, he could see her cheeks brighten ever so slightly. It was a feature of hers he never wanted to see disappear – the way she wore her heart on her sleeve, never afraid to show him what she was feeling. Even if it wasn't always love. "So…your place tonight?"

"Um, yeah," Molly nodded, looking back down at the body in front of her. "If you give me a few minutes to finish up here, I can get you some lungs, maybe? Keep you occupied til I'm done."

He smiled at her and nodded in return. Turning slowly on his heel, keeping her gaze until the last possible moment, he faced the door in time to see two of Molly's coworkers looking in at them with doe-eyes and ridiculously heartfelt smiles. They started and scattered when they saw he had caught them. Letting out a sigh, he turned to look at Molly again.

"How many people know?" he asked.

"Three as of last night at the pub," she answered with a sly tilt of her head. "You may want to find someplace to hide out if you don't want to get bombarded with questions."

"Lovely," he muttered, abruptly changing direction and going out the back door to wait for her delivery of body parts.

* * *

 

Sherlock stood impatiently, waiting for Lestrade to finish with the mail clerk at the Westminster post office where Lillian's letters originated from. The woman looked rather put out at having to look into the PO box files when she had a line of customers and only one other clerk working, but Sherlock wasn't terribly interested in that inconvenience.

The clerk went to retrieve the printed information that had been requested and handed it over to the DI. Lestrade thanked her before turning and ushering Sherlock and John out of the post office and onto the street.

"The address they have listed is on the west side of the borough," he said as they walked, the bustle of the morning flowing around.

Sherlock reached out and yanked the papers from Lestrade's hand.

"Thank you, Gerry, you can go back to your office now," he said curtly.

"Nah, mate, you dragged me out on this and now I'm enjoying being away from the deskwork," Lestrade informed him with a smile, shoving his hands into his pockets. "I'm interested now."

"How do I get you  _un_ interested," Sherlock muttered.

"Try calling him by the right name," John offered.

Some fifteen minutes later, they had arrived at the address listed for the post box. It was a three story, brick façade building nestled amongst many others just like it, some with darkened pubs or eclectic shops below them. The street wasn't the nicest, but it also wasn't the most offensive in London. The scent of rubbish and exhaust was only slightly stronger than on other streets. The door bearing the correct flat number was side-by-side with another that most likely led to the second and third floors of the building. Sherlock jogged up the few stairs to the front stoop and tried the handle. It didn't budge. He looked over to see John leaning over the guard rail to the basement to peer into the window.

"It's tinted," John told him.

Reaching into the inner pocket of his coat, Sherlock extracted his lock picking kit and turned his body to block his actions from general view. He gripped the thin metal inserted it into the lock, concentrating as he waited for the telltale click. He was certainly getting the chance to practice his skills with the case.

"Sherlock, may I remind you that we do not have a warrant to enter - "

The door popped open and Sherlock pushed inside, completely ignoring Lestrade, particularly his frustrated groan. The inside of the building was dark, the ceiling low over their heads as they walked inside. It was a simple flat, with a sofa and television by the front window and a kitchenette in the corner. He could see the bedroom through the door between the two spaces.

"You get ten minutes in here before we need to  _leave_ ," Lestrade said in a dramatic whisper.

"Why are you talking like that," Sherlock said, pulling a face as he looked at the DI. "There's no one here."

"Neighbors. They tend to perk up when they suspect there might be a burglary in progress."

Sherlock barely managed to keep from rolling his eyes as he walked away, taking a turn about the room and poking into the bedroom and adjoining bath. John began opening drawers in the kitchenette when he came back into the main living space.

"Well lived in, he's been living here for a while," Sherlock said as he started opening cupboards.

"The boyfriend?" John asked.

"Most likely. Women's shampoo and products in the bathroom alongside men's. She's been staying here. Ah!"

Hidden behind the Tesco boxes of breakfast cereal in a cupboard, his hand landed on a metal box. Pulling it out onto the counter, he opened it quickly as John and Lestrade crowded around to see what he had found. Inside was a well-organized collection of currency – notes of varying amounts bundled together as well as a foreign currency. He pulled out a bundle and inspected it.

"Romanian," he said simply. "Tons of Romanian leu and hundreds of pounds…that's what she was tracking. And living with someone in Westminster…"

"What's that to do with it?" John asked.

"Highest number of brothels in London," Sherlock explained. "With a history of sex trafficking from Eastern Europe and Asia. I need to watch them, track their movements, find out exactly what they're doing."

"Well you can start outside, we've already been here longer than I'm comfortable with," Lestrade said brusquely.

Once they had returned everything to its original position, the three of them slipped out of the flat and down the street.

"It'll be easy enough to keep a lookout," Sherlock said, adjusting his gloves. "Set up on the corner with a view of the flat, wait until they return. If they're involved in a brothel ring, it'll likely be far into the night, you might want to let Mary know you'll be gone - "

"We are not staying here all night waiting," John said firmly. "We can't even stay for an hour at this point."

"Why not? It's a perfectly sensible way to do this," Sherlock argued.

"Not when you have somewhere else to be, it's not," John reminded him irritably.

Sherlock's body drooped and he looked away from John as he rolled his eyes.

"Is it Friday?" he muttered.

"Surely is."

"You've got plans on a Friday night?" Lestrade said incredulously.

"Is that so surprising?" Sherlock snapped, strangely insulted by his words.

"A bit, yeah," Lestrade said with a shrug, planting his hands on his hips.

When Sherlock said nothing more about it, John took it upon himself to fill in the details.

"Bart's hospital gala is tonight," he said.

"And why do you need to go?" Lestrade pressed.

"Because Molly Hooper asked him," John supplied. "They're sort of…together."

"Thank you, John, could you have said that any more childishly," Sherlock bit out.

For a moment, Lestrade stared between the two of them, his brow furrowed in complete confusion. Then, a grin broke out on his face and he shook his head.

"You're taking the piss," he said.

"Not even a little," John told him, looking at Sherlock and waiting for him to speak.

"After dating a criminal mastermind and a good hearted idiot, I suppose I looked like an appealing option," he said testily after a moment. "A happy medium."

"Not exactly how it went, but you get the picture," John said, looking back to Lestrade, who was visibly still trying to wrap his head around what he had just been told.

"I can put a uniform out here tonight," he offered, recovering slightly. "They'll keep an eye on things and we'll let you know if anything happens that's worthwhile."

"Great," John said, clapping his hands together. "Now we do need to be going, because Sherlock Holmes has a date. A real one."

* * *

 

Molly looked at herself in the mirror, not quite believing the reflection she saw. She'd spent twenty minutes in the shop staring at the dress before a clerk finally walked up to her and encouraged her to try it on. Two compliments from random strangers later as she stood in front of the shop mirror and she was shelling out more money than she'd ever spent on a single piece of clothing.

It was a stunning steel grey. Soft organza. Strapless, with delicate crystals sewn perfectly into the bodice of the sweetheart neckline. The rich fabric fell as smoothly as water to the floor, moving like a dream whenever she took a step. It had a distinctly vintage look altogether.

She hadn't bothered to do much with her hair or makeup, just soft waves, parted elegantly to the side, and enough color to make her feel like a slightly fancy version of herself.

But add in a pair of three inch heels and she actually managed to look…statuesque.

Molly smiled.

Hearing the lock in her front door turning, she turned away from her bedroom mirror and walked towards the living room. Sherlock let himself in, his eyes glued firmly to the phone in his hand. He was wearing his Belstaff, but underneath that, she could see the finely tailored black suit and crisp white shirt. No tie, of course, but he still looked a great deal more stylish than other men she'd seen in a tux. Her chest swelled with a breath of amazement at the sight of him.

"John says they'll be ready by the time we pick them up, but I find that incredibly hard to believe, he was always slow getting ready," he said, his fingers typing something into his phone. "I would say take your time getting ready, but I have the cab waiting downstairs, the meter's… running…and…"

He trailed off as he finally looked up from his phone, his eyes bouncing back down to the screen once before shooting back up to her and staying there. She watched his eyes glaze over and his mouth drop open just the slightest bit and she had to hold back an embarrassed smile. It was a better compliment than any words he could have said.

"I think I'm ready, actually," she said quietly.

"I – I would agree on that point," he stammered, blinking rapidly and shoving his phone in his pocket. "Your coat?"

"In the hall cupboard," she told him, watching as he immediately went to fetch it for her, holding it up as she walked towards the door. She slid her arms into the smooth lining of her best coat, turning away from him as she did so. Once she had it settled over her shoulders, she felt his hands slide down to land firmly on her arms, pulling her closer to him.

"Dolce and Gabbana," he murmured, leaning down close to her neck. "Pour Femme. New?"

"No," she told him. "I just don't wear it much."

"You should. It suits you."

He bent down just a bit further and pressed his lips into the curve of her neck. A shiver went straight through her body and her eyes closed.

"Didn't you say the meter was running?" she reminded him.

"Do you really want to bother with this gala, Molly?" he asked, completely ignoring her. "Polite conversation, agonizing small talk with people who only see you as payroll, boring speeches."

"I spent a small fortune on this dress, Sherlock, I'd sort of like for people to see it," she argued with a smile.

" _I_  see you in it," he told her. "Who else matters?"

"Bit pompous, there," she warned him, turning in his arms and reaching for his hand to lead him out the door.


	13. Chapter 13

The smell of flowers and vanilla mingled with that of baby powder and detergent on the second floor landing as John moved between rooms, having just put Joanna into a clean nappy and settled her into her crib.  The little girl was in a good humor which boded well for their sitter.  Not that she would mind if the baby was fussy; she was one of their closest friends from the hospital and a nurse on the maternity ward, but still, happy baby was always better than cranky baby.

John paused in the doorway to the master bedroom, looking in at Mary sitting at her vanity.  She had her powder blue silk robe wrapped tightly around her, her hands moving delicately amongst her cosmetics as she applied them to her face.  It had been a very long time since he had watched her take this much care with her appearance, getting ready for a fancy night out.  Sometimes his heart ached thinking of the time they had been apart, the gaping divide between them robbing him of what should have been a happy time.  Sometimes he wished Sherlock had never stumbled upon Mary’s secret.  And not only because it would have spared him from getting shot.

But then where would they be if he had never found out?  Would they still be keeping up appearances with both of them feeling an itch for adventure prickling just below the surface, sending tensions ever higher until they came to a head?  Sherlock had been so very right, no matter how much John _hated_ to admit it – he was drawn to Mary for a reason.  They were made for each other.

He only wished she had trusted him enough, or even trusted Sherlock enough, to confide her secret rather than resorting to old habits to protect herself and him.  She’d told him in the few weeks after their reconciliation that she had put down her gun a month before assuming her new identity and hadn’t picked it up again until that night in Magnussen’s office.  She’d been terrified.  It was the first time in over five years that anyone had tracked her down, threatened the security she had earned.  It was like Sherlock had said – she panicked.  She was cornered, threatened, and she reacted to save what she had.

He couldn’t say what he would have done in the same situation.  His mind told him he would have tried to find another way, but it certainly didn’t say he wouldn’t have done the exact same thing, either.

No matter the puzzle of the hypotheticals, there was one thing he knew for certain:  he still loved Mary.  There was nothing about the woman he had fallen in love with that was false when it came to her personality, her loyalty, and her love.  She was as complicated and dangerous as the rest of them, but she would be dedicated to him, and to Sherlock, for the rest of her life and he knew it.

He also realized he had essentially abandoned her for months.  Justified or not, he was trying to make up for it.

She caught him staring in the mirror and smiled gently, putting down her mascara.

“Did she fall asleep?” she asked.

“Not yet,” he answered, stepping into the room and walking over to the bed.  He picked up the tie and jacket from where he had laid them on the blankets earlier, looping the black fabric around the back of his neck and shrugging into his tux jacket.  “She can probably tell we’re getting ready to leave and is gearing up for an exciting evening with mum and dad out of the house.”

Mary laughed and stood up.  She turned to face him and took hold of the ends of his bowtie, her nimble fingers quickly looping the fabric into submission.

“Hopefully she won’t be throwing parties or inviting boys over for a few more years,” Mary teased as she finished straightening the bow.

“Oh, she’ll never be inviting boys over,” John said firmly.  “That’s a bloody fact.”

“Is it, now?” Mary said, quirking an eyebrow.

“Boys are utter tits.  I should know, I was one,” he said, sliding a hand around her waist and bringing it to rest against the small of her back.

Mary smiled at him, leaning into his touch.  John looked into her blue eyes for a moment before focusing on her lips, dipping his head slightly to give her a kiss.  Her lips were soft and pliant against his, definitely inviting.  When her mouth opened under his, he felt his blood warm, and his arms wound tightly around her, sliding against the silk of her robe.

“John?”  Her voice was quiet, questioning against his lips.

They’d been loving towards each other since he’d come back to the house.  Affectionate. 

But there was one area of their relationship they had yet to re-enter.  He supposed five minutes before they were expecting company was not the moment to venture into that territory.

“Sorry,” he said softly, pulling away slightly.  “You’ve been on my mind a bit.”

“Can I be on your mind later, husband?” she asked with a sly smile.

“Oh, absolutely, wife,” he agreed quickly, smiling back at her.

The doorbell rang downstairs and a moment later Joanna started to fuss in her crib.  Mary rolled her eyes and planted one last kiss on his lips before slipping out of his arms.  He sighed at the loss of contact.

“I’ll get her,” he offered.  “You finish getting dressed.”

Mary winked at him as she walked over the wardrobe to gather her dress.  John wandered out of the bedroom and back into the nursery, leaning over the rails of the crib to pick up a squirming Joanna.  She quieted immediately, her fingers latching into the fabric of his jacket.  

“There’s a girl,” he said comfortingly, patting her back as he headed towards to the stairs, eager to see exactly how fussy the other baby in his life was about being forced to attend a gala.

 

* * *

 

 

“It’s not too late to back out,” Sherlock offered quickly after Molly rang the doorbell.  Her elbow in his ribs and the chastising look on her face told him that would be the last time he could try to get her to change her mind.

A few moments later, the door opened and John stood there with the baby on his shoulder.

“Oh good, he didn’t run away,” John said happily, letting them in.  “I was worried he might.”

Molly giggled lightly and sent a look at Sherlock over her shoulder as she followed John inside.  Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek.  If he _had_ decided to run away and skip this absurd evening, the first thing he would have done would be to take Molly with him.  Preferably somewhere secluded where he could properly appreciate her in that dress.  And out of it.  Other people’s clothing didn’t much matter to him except as a clue to who they were as a person, but he could certainly appreciate the way that dress made Molly look.

As soon as they were inside, Mary appeared on the stairs, her hand behind her back, holding the zip of her dress closed.

“God, Molly, come help me with this dress, it’s impossible,” she pleaded, gesturing for Molly to follow her upstairs.  “John, the sitter called, she’ll be here in five minutes.  Get Jo’s bottle ready for her?”

“Right,” John said, walking over to Sherlock and handing him Joanna.

In a matter of seconds, they had all left the hall and it was suddenly quiet.  He blinked and looked down at the baby, her head tucked securely in the crook of his arm.  She looked right back up at him, her blue eyes wide and surprisingly still as they sized each other up. 

“Hello,” he said hesitantly.

Joanna wriggled and her lips parted in a gummy smile.

“Mm,” Sherlock said with a nod.  “Social responsiveness coming along nicely.  Good.”

Shifting his arms to better accommodate her, he started to sway very self-consciously, imitating the way he had seen Molly hold her.  Mary usually went for more of a bounce and John held her on his shoulder.  Sherlock was more comfortable with swaying than bouncing and, quite frankly, was frightened that if he tried to lift her to his shoulder he would end up dropping her or upsetting her.  With his bare hand pressed against her back, he felt the soft fabric of her pyjamas and the purely relaxed way that she breathed.  Babies’ respiration was completely different than adults or children.  Their bodies did not hold the tension that walking brought and their breaths were full, all encompassing.

He knew the fact, but had never felt it.

She gurgled happily and her hand landed on the front of his shirt, gripping instinctually. 

“I think she’s made a new friend.”

Sherlock looked up to see John standing in the door of the kitchen, a bottle in hand.

“Grasping is purely innate.  Vestigial reflex from a time when infants had to hold onto their mothers as they traveled on foot,” he explained, looking back down at the tiny fingers holding onto his shirt.  “Nothing personal to it.”

John raised his eyebrows and nodded his head, looking resigned to Sherlock’s practical analysis.  He crossed the space between them and held out the bottle.

“Personal or not, you’re feeding her,” he said, putting the bottle in Sherlock’s hand.  “She’s happy where she is, no point in moving her.”

For a moment, Sherlock stood helplessly with the bottle in his hand, looking from it to the baby and then to John.  Joanna started wriggling, her eyes locked on the bottle in his hand.

“Just tip it up, make sure she’s getting just milk and no air, otherwise she gets gassy,” John said, smiling in encouragement.  “She knows how to take care of the rest.”

 

* * *

 

 

Molly pulled the zip of Mary’s dress up, adjusting the dark blue fabric so that it lay perfectly.  She looked over Mary’s shoulder into the mirror in front of them.

“You look lovely,” she said.

“It’s a bit tighter than I’d like,” Mary said, scrutinizing her belly in the mirror and running her hands over the front of the dress.  Then she smiled at Molly.  “But it’ll work, won’t it?”

“I dare say it will,” Molly agreed, smiling back.

Mary turned and grabbed her shoes from the floor, sitting on the edge of the bed to put them on.  While she was occupied, Molly took the opportunity to look around the room.  There were pictures of Joanna everywhere.  The wardrobe was neatly stocked with clothes and sweaters folded and placed onto the top shelf.  The bathroom counter was lined with creams and a shaving kit, toothpaste and a holder with two toothbrushes. 

If she had been a little less in love with a certain consulting detective, her life could have looked very similar to the Watsons’ at that point. 

“Do you like being married?” she asked without thinking.

Mary looked up at her in surprise, right in the middle of pulling on her second shoe.  Suddenly remembering that things had been bad between John and Mary for months for a reason that she was still unsure of, Molly felt awful for asking.

“I’m sorry,” Molly said immediately, shaking her head.  “Too personal.  I’m prying.”

“No, it’s fine,” Mary said quickly, pulling the heel of her shoe into place and sitting up.  She folded her hands in her lap and looked down.  “I love John.  And Joanna, so much, so…so much. I’ve got all I’ve ever wanted.  A husband.  A child.  And a… Sherlock.”

Molly smiled and looked down at her feet.

“Yeah, I’ve got one of those too,” she said, laughing a bit.

“They’re good to have around,” Mary said, standing up.  “And if you keep getting fancied up like this he’ll be around for a very long time.”

“Oh,” Molly said, looking down at the dress below her coat.  “Yeah, he liked it, but honestly, I think he likes me just as much in a lab coat holding body parts.”

“There’s a dirty joke in there somewhere, I’m sure of it,” Mary said thoughtfully, looking off into space.

Molly laughed again as Mary laced her arm through hers, leading them back out onto the landing.  When they descended the stairs, they came upon the very last sight in the world Molly would ever have expected.  Right there in the hall, Sherlock was standing with Joanna in his arms, feeding her a bottle.  Molly had never considered herself baby crazy, but right there and then she was fairly certain her uterus jumped.  Mary seemed to know exactly what she was thinking.

“Nothing like the sight of the man you love holding a baby, is there?” she whispered into Molly’s ear, leaving her on the stairs as she went down to retrieve her coat from John.

There was a knock at the door and Molly watched as Sherlock stepped aside to let John and Mary greet the sitter.  She couldn’t seem to take her eyes off him as the group bustled around.  He was staring at Joanna so intently, making sure she had had her fill before pulling the bottle away and handing both bottle and baby to the sitter.  The look on his face when she walked away with the Watsons to go over the plan for the evening was one she could barely place…longing, perhaps.  Or astonishment.

Whichever it was, he did a good job of masking it once the four of them were on their way to the hotel.  The gala was held in the hotel ballroom which had been decorated elegantly, glittering in a sleek, modern way.  Round tables were set with white linens and fine china, forming a horseshoe around an empty space below the stage.  Several dozen people wandered the large room, accepting drinks and appetizers from waiters.  She recognized many faces from Bart’s, some extremely familiar and some she only knew from their random appearances to make sure things at the hospital were running smoothly. 

Mike Stamford caught sight of the group and waved them over, eager to introduce them to some of the donors surrounding him.

“Doctor John Watson and his wife, Mary,” Mike said to the group at large.  “Our finest doctor-nurse, husband-and-wife team.  Sherlock Holmes, you might know him from the papers – works with Scotland Yard.  And Molly Hooper, one of the finest pathologists at Bart’s.”

“ _The_ finest, your others could use some work,” Sherlock corrected quickly.

The group broke out into amused laughter and Sherlock looked down at Molly in confusion.  She leaned into him.

“They think you’re kidding,” she said under her breath.

“I most certainly am not,” he muttered back.

“Eddie and Elizabeth were the ones responsible for the new testing equipment in oncology last year,” Mike went on, pointing to a posh looking couple. 

“Can’t tell you how much we appreciated that one,” said a doctor whom Molly recognized from the hospital.

“It was the least we could do,” Eddie said, lifting his wine glass.  “Cheers.”

“And Vincent Lee, where would we be without this man?” Mike said, gesturing with open palms towards a tall man with dark hair to their right who immediately appeared humbled.  “Any time we run into trouble, he comes to the rescue like a knight.”

“It gives me joy to help,” Vincent replied earnestly.  He looked around the group and smiled.  “And it gives me the chance to meet such fine people.  How often does one get to mingle with the famous Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson?”

Beside Molly, Sherlock made a noise that sounded very much like choking on a biting retort, followed by a deep sigh.

“Perhaps we should find our seats?” she suggested, reaching out to lace her fingers through his and tugging him away from the group. 

Dinner was divine, as expected, and the speeches and recognitions of the many people who had contributed to St. Bartholomew’s over the previous year did not go on as long as she had anticipated.  Before long, dessert was being served and a band was setting up onstage, looking to provide a good amount of after dinner entertainment.  John had Mary up and onto the dance floor the moment the first song started, holding his wife close.  Molly watched them from her seat.

“They seem happy again,” she observed.  Sherlock hummed in agreement.  “Was it bad?  What happened with them?”

She looked over when he didn’t answer.  His brow was lowered and his eyes seemed far away, as though he was analyzing something important in his mind.  Sometimes she wished she could delve into his mind, to be able to see the world as he did.  She could read Sherlock better than most people, but there were still times when he would disappear from her altogether and leave her wondering.

“Yes.  It was bad,” he replied finally.  After a few moments, his eyes still fixed on something she couldn’t see, he added, “We exist on a different plane than the rest of the world, don’t we, Molly?  Our world, our forgiveness…it’s on a different level.”

She thought back to the day he had jumped from Bart’s – staging his body in the morgue, forging his death certificate, faking her grief, lying to everyone.  She thought of him getting high for a case, of him shooting a man to protect his friends and others. 

“Yes, we do,” she agreed.

He surprised her when he reached out and took her hand, standing up as he did so.

“Time to dance,” he announced.

“What?” she said, looking up at him in bewilderment at his sudden change of topic.

“Vincent Lee has been staring at you for the past five minutes, he’s about to come over here and ask you,” Sherlock told her, tugging at her hand to pull her out of her chair.  “Can’t have that, he’s a self-proclaimed ladies’ man with a penchant for gambling.”

Molly followed his gaze and saw the man in question turn quickly away, retreating into a conversation in progress nearby.  Had that been what he was staring at all along?

She hardly had time to consider that thought as Sherlock led her onto the dance floor, one arm looping easily around her waist as he took her hand up with the other.  For a while, they danced in silence, Sherlock’s strong hand at her back leading her as they swayed in time to the music.  On one turn, she noticed her co-workers seated at a nearby table, giving her a round of enthusiastic thumbs-up.  She rolled her eyes, but smiled, hoping he hadn’t seen.

“I do hope this quells some fantasies for you, Molly,” he said suddenly.

“What?” she asked incredulously, looking up at him.

“Don’t pretend this isn’t something you’ve dreamed about,” Sherlock murmured.  “Black tie event, getting to play dress-up to impress me.”  Molly snorted at his insolence.  “New gown, make-up done, silk stockings, and new underwear?  You’ve gone all out.”

Molly smiled smugly and looked up at him.

“Close, Sherlock.  Very close,” she said.  His brow lowered and he stared warily at her.

“What did I miss?”

Leaning in close, standing on tiptoe so she could get closer to his ear, she reveled in having one up on him.

“Not wearing underwear,” she whispered, enjoying the sight of his pulse jumping in his throat.

He practically growled, pulling her tighter as they swayed to the music, and she could hardly mistake the stirring she felt against her stomach.  They lasted three more songs before Sherlock determined that it was time to go home.  He collected their things while Molly waved a quick goodbye to Mary and John from the side of the dance floor.

In the cab ride to Baker Street, he slipped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her against his side, his fingers playing at the nape of her neck.  As Molly slid her arm under his coat and across his stomach, her mind suggested the most scandalous idea she had ever entertained.  With her heart thudding, she risked a glance at the cabbie.  He seemed absorbed in his task, paying his passengers no mind.  As subtly as she could, she slid her hand down the smooth front of Sherlock’s shirt and towards the waist of his trousers.  She felt his stomach tighten and heard his soft intake of breath, but he didn’t stop her.  It was an effort to slide her fingers under the fabric – he really did have the worst habit of wearing impossibly tight clothes.

She tried to hold back a smug smile when her fingers found him already halfway hard.  She’d never done anything so _public_ before and it thrilled her to her toes.  She watched his face the whole time, taking in the way his pupils grew until the blue was almost gone and the set of his jaw as he tried to control his reactions.  Getting to see him come undone had become one of her favorite pastimes.

When they arrived at Baker Street, he practically threw the money at the cabbie before pulling her out of the car and into the building.  Before she knew what was happening, he had her against the wall in the foyer, his hand sliding under her coat and around her waist before coming to rest firmly on her arse.  His mouth was hot on hers, coaxing her into a state of bliss. 

“Sherlock,” she moaned against his lips.  “Mrs. Hudson…what if she’s awake?”

“She’ll be an hour into her soothers if she is and you didn’t seem that bothered by an audience five minutes ago,” he replied, dragging his hands over the fabric of her dress and sending shivers down her spine.  “But if you’re that worried, we could continue upstairs…”

Molly nodded, feeling that if they did stay where they were for a moment longer, she truly wouldn’t care who saw or heard. 

Sherlock had her stretched out across the smooth fabric of his duvet within moments of entering the flat, sliding down her body and pulling at the skirt of her gown until the layers of organza were bunched around her waist.  When he saw that she hadn’t been lying about her lack of underwear, he quickly gripped her hips and lowered his head, burying his mouth between her legs.  Molly cried out at the fervor of his lips and tongue, straining against the strong grasp of his fingers.  Her flesh burned beneath his touch, her muscles fluttering and tensing until her orgasm washed over her, writhing against the bed and Sherlock’s hands.

She had barely come down from the high when he was pulling her up from the bed, deftly pulling the zip of her dress down and relieving her of the burden of being clothed.  Her senses returned to her and she pushed at his jacket, letting it drop to the floor before moving on to the buttons of his shirt.

Their lovely clothes were decorating the floor of his bedroom in seconds, but Molly could hardly mourn the short lived attire with Sherlock driving her mad with pleasure.  When she reached for her silk stockings, he stopped her, running his hands along her calves and up to her bare thighs, his expression absolutely ravenous as he lowered his body over hers.  

“Leave them on,” he said, his voice rumbling with desire as she reached for a condom.

Sherlock wrapped his arms tightly around her waist as he slid inside her and she lifted her hips to meet him, feeling him thrust slowly, deeply, his body completely flush with hers.  Molly wound her arms around him and held on firmly, thinking she might drift away completely if she didn’t have him to ground her.  The friction of his movements sent prickles of tension into her thighs, her arse, her back, everywhere until she thought she wouldn’t be able to stand it a second longer. 

Groaning her name and straining against her, Sherlock’s movements became sharper and stronger, thrusting against her until he let out a sudden blissful cry and went rigid.  That was all it took to send Molly over the edge again, her nails digging into his skin and her face buried against his shoulder as they were both wracked with ecstasy.

“God, Sherlock, I love you,” she whispered into his skin, placing gentle kisses along his collar bone as they struggled for breath.  “I love you.”

“Molly,” he groaned, his fingers flexing and gripping the small of her back.  “Love you.  So much.”

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock’s phone chiming in the dark just before dawn jarred her awake, a wholly unwelcome sensation after the happiness of the night before.  She squinted in the dark, looking over to his side of the bed as he reached for the phone and read the message.

In the next instant, he was up and out of bed, rushing towards the bathroom.  Molly blinked in surprise, hearing the water in the shower start to run.  The question of what exactly he was doing was forming on her lips when there was a knock at the front door.

“Would you get that, please?” Sherlock called from inside the bathroom.

“Um…sure,” Molly said uncertainly, looking around quickly for his dressing gown to wrap around herself. 

Once she had it secured around her waist, she padded down the hall and flipped on the kitchen light, reaching for the door to unlock it.  Standing on the other side was the man she recognized from the horrible day in the morgue when she’d had to confirm Sherlock’s relapse.  A man she only knew as the proprietor of a drug den.  She swallowed hard, her shock giving way to a punch of anger.

“What the hell are you doing here?” she demanded. 

“Sherlock told me to come get ‘im as soon as I saw somefing,” Bill said by way of explanation.  “I didn’ know ‘e would be entertaining.”

“What do you mean as soon as you saw something?” she asked, crossing her arms over her chest.  “What do you want with him?”

“He’s fine, Molly,” Sherlock said from the end of the hall.  “He’s been keeping an eye on the case for me since last night.”

She turned to stare at him, his hair wet from the quick shower and a towel wrapped around his waist.

“Didn’ know you had the missus with you, Sherlock,” Bill droned again, poking his head into the kitchen.

Sherlock made a face Molly couldn’t quite place, but she stepped aside as Sherlock gestured the man in.

“She’s staying here,” Sherlock said firmly, turning back into the bedroom.  “We’ll go in a moment.”

Only slightly relieved that Bill was at Baker Street for the purpose of Sherlock’s current case and not for any unsavory reasons, she turned to look at the former addict.  He smiled at her in a lazy way.

“Nice to see ‘im settled down,” he said.  “I always told ‘im you make a lovely couple.”

 

* * *

 

 

It had been nearly a year since Mary had felt her husband’s body pressed against hers, holding onto her while they made love.  He had only just started sharing a bed with her again in the month before Joanna’s birth. 

The feel of his hands on her again, the slow, careful way he pulled every piece of clothing from her limbs and looked at her as though she were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, post-baby body and all, had her grasping for control of her emotions.  It wasn’t much of a surprise that a tear or two slipped from her eyes when he moved inside her, bringing her to the sweetest climax she had experienced in years before whispering her name as he came. 

He hadn’t let go of her afterwards, pulling her with him as he rolled to his side and she fell asleep wrapped in his arms with him still buried inside of her.

Mary groaned when the bedside phone rang in the grey of dawn.  The way John tightened his hold on her before rolling over to answer the offensive device told her he was just as displeased to be disturbed.  She instantly missed the warmth of his bare skin against hers, following him across the bed as he fumbled for the receiver.

“’Lo?” he grumbled, his voice thick with sleep.  She could hear the unmistakable voice of Sherlock on the other end, though she couldn’t tell what he was saying.  After a few moments, John sighed.  “Sherlock, it’s bloody five thirty in the morning, we had a late night…none of your business, that’s what.  Can’t this wait a few hours?”

The voice on the other end of the phone grew in intensity and indignation and Mary smirked into the skin of John’s shoulder, imagining Sherlock completely at a loss as to why John would not want to jump at the chance of solving a crime.  She had assumed being with Molly would give him some insight, but he seemed to be as incorrigible as ever.

“Fine,” John groaned.  “I’ll, no, I’ll meet you there.  Yeah, bye.”

Mary pouted when he hung up and turned an apologetic face towards her.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he told her.  “I swear.”

“You’d better,” she said with a smile, laughing when he leaned over her, kissing her in the same way that had led to them falling into their bed and praying Joanna stayed asleep the night before.

He groaned again, pushing away from her before he couldn’t leave her side at all.

 


	14. Chapter 14

Under the glow of streetlights, Sherlock waited for John on the corner of the same street they had traveled less than twenty-four hours before.  Bill stood next to him, calm as usual, his eyes locked on the building he had been told to watch.  His vigilance in following Sherlock’s orders was almost amusing. 

The street was quiet in the early morning hours.  Aside from the officer Lestrade had placed to look after things, not a single soul was to be seen.  The officer remained huddled in his nondescript car, taking intermittent sips of coffee from a large, cheap Styrofoam cup.  The drink would have long gone cold, the officer no doubt frustrated and uncomfortable, but it would provide the needed energy to finish the assignment from his superior. 

A flash of headlights from around the corner caught Sherlock’s attention and he watched as a cab rolled to a stop.  John exited a moment later, jogging over to join Sherlock and Bill. 

“They came home?” John asked, looking in the direction of the flat.

“Kostya, the boyfriend, did,” Sherlock informed him.  “Fortunately for us, Billy was here to catch it.  The officer spooked the young man and he doubled back, went in through the back window from the alley.  Always have a second set of eyes on a building, never just one.”

“Noted,” John said.  “So we’re waiting for him to come back out?”

“Precisely.”

It didn’t take long.  Mere minutes later, Bill’s phone vibrated and he nodded off in the direction John had come from, leading them down the street and around the corner.  Standing in the shadows of the alleyway was a young woman bundled in tattered trousers and an old army jacket.  She whistled as they approached, pointing up the street, then to the left. 

Sherlock felt his adrenaline spike, taking off down the street in the direction she had indicated.  The morning air was stinging against his face as he ran, but he rejoiced in it, relating the sensation to closing in on success, making him feel alive. 

They were moving away from the residential buildings within a few short blocks and when they spilled out onto a main street he was confronted with the start of morning commute pedestrians.  His eyes scanned the crowd, looking for the outlier.  Quickly spotting a young man with a rucksack tossed over one shoulder, hands shoved deep in his pockets, Sherlock looked to Billy.  The man nodded and they picked up the chase, following discreetly as Kostya walked rapidly down the pavement, glancing around from time to time and running a hand nervously through his unruly brown hair.

Discretion became of the utmost importance as they were eventually led away from the presence of other people, moving into a more industrialized neighborhood.  For as many gritty factories as there were dotting the large plots of land, there were an equal amount of abandoned and run-down buildings, giving the neighborhood a hopeless feeling of being on the descent to economic uselessness. 

Focused as he was on tracking their target, it took John’s strained voice to pull his attention to something even more important.  And sinister.

“Sherlock,” John repeated, catching the consulting detective’s arm and jerking them to a stop, pointing up to the sky.

At first, it looked like the glow of factory lights and industrial smoke curling above the buildings on the street.  The orange glow created a hazy highlight to the rooftops in the mist and dark clouds of the dawn.  It took him only a second to realize that there was nothing industrial about what they saw. 

He registered Kostya taking off at a sprint down the street and around the corner and caught the panic in his eyes.  That was all the incentive Sherlock needed to follow, giving up on trying to avoid being seen.  John and Bill were quick on his heels and they skidded to a halt as a three-story, brick structure came into view, centered on its own gravel-covered lot and spitting flames and sparks from the center windows on the second and third floors.  He knew immediately that the fire would consume the building and everything inside of it; it was too far gone, creeping into the early stages of a raging inferno.

John was the first to move again, dashing towards the building with his instinct to save the lives of anyone who might be in danger.  Sherlock shot after him with the intention to stop him before he could do anything stupid, knowing there was nothing John could do.  A mild explosion from the top floor shot burning material into the air and blew a small hole in the side of the building, raining brick down onto the gravel lot below.  John stopped short, throwing an arm up to shield his face as they watched the scene helplessly. 

“Christ,” John bit out, reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out his phone to dial for help.

Sherlock knew his call would not be the first, not with the sound of the explosion and the increasing visibility of the fire.  He watched the building carefully, hearing the first sirens far in the distance.  To his utter astonishment, he saw movement in the shadow of the huge entryway on the ground floor.  John slowly lowered his phone and again moved towards the building, Sherlock on his heels, as two distinct forms emerged from the billowing smoke, carrying something between them. 

They had reached the forms to help by the time Sherlock recognized Susan Fisher, her face twisted in agony as she dragged the limp form of her daughter from the building with the help of Kostya.  John swiftly lent his support, encouraging them all to a safe distance from the danger of the fire.  Lillian was slowly lowered to the ground and John reached in to check her vital signs, his face grim as he looked down at the soot and singed clothing covering the girl.  Sherlock was certain that she had sustained burns they could not yet see under the mess…if she had survived at all.

Susan collapsed next to Lillian, shoving John heedlessly out of the way, her hands gripping the side of the girl’s head as sirens wailed as they grew closer. 

“No!” she cried in anguish, angry tears falling from her eyes.  She let out a gut wrenching sob and lowered her head to Lillian’s chest.  She stayed like that for several moments before dragging her body upright again, her devastated gaze fixed on Kostya.  He had backed away from the group, conscious of Bill watching his movements.  “You promised me she wouldn’t be hurt… you _promised_ me if I could get Sherlock Holmes involved, she would be okay!”

Sherlock had hardly registered the ominous words before Susan reached into the pocket of her coat.  The metal of the gun flashed in her hand against the headlights of the ambulance and police cars descending on the scene.  He cried out to stop her and John rushed forward, but it was too late. With a deafening bang, a bullet was lodged in Kostya’s throat.  Bill recoiled, his eyes widening at the sight.  Blood seeped from the wound and Kostya’s eyes crinkled in pain, then glazed over as his body crumpled to the ground.

They needn’t have bothered trying to disarm Susan; she dropped the gun limply and fell to her daughter once more, her sobs only increasing.

One quick glance at John told him he had imagined nothing.  They had been driven into the investigation for a reason, a deeper reason than a mother trying to save her daughter.  Moving in tandem, John reached for Lillian and began to assess her injuries while Sherlock knelt in front of Susan, gripping her arms and forcing her to focus on him.

“Who wanted me involved?” he demanded, knowing they had only seconds before the police and medics would converge on the scene.  “Who?”

“I don’t know,” she wailed helplessly.  “They promised that I would get her back…they only told me that they wanted to see you work.”

“What else did they say, tell me the exact words,” Sherlock said, gripping her arms tighter.  “Tell me!”

“They said he owes you,” Susan gasped out before her eyes closed, falling into a wreck of silent crying, clutching at her coat as the medics reached them, supplying oxygen and treatment to Lillian.

His blood ran like ice through his body.  He stood up quickly, shedding himself of the woman’s weeping and locked eyes with John.  The absolute terror he found there left him shaking.  He wrenched his phone from his pocket, ripping off his gloves in order to navigate his contacts as quickly as possible, his blood thundering as he lifted the device to his ear and heard ringing. 

“Dear brother, to what do I owe - ”

“Anima,” Sherlock said roughly, enacting the code the brothers had agreed upon in the wake of the threat of Moriarty.

There was a pause.  He watched Lillian being loaded onto a gurney and wheeled hurriedly towards the ambulance.  A sheet was placed over Kostya.  Two officers were hauling Susan to her feet, looking regretful as they snapped a pair of handcuffs onto her wrists and walked her to a waiting police car.

“Are you sure?” Mycroft asked softly, though his voice was serious.

“Lock her down, Mycroft,” Sherlock growled.  “Don’t ask questions, just do it.  And send people to the Watsons’ while you’re at it.”

He forcefully pushed the ‘End Call’ command, conscious of John standing close to his side.

“You think it’s him?  He’s been behind all of this, just watching us for fun?” John seethed.  “I thought Mycroft confirmed he was _dead_.”

Sherlock looked up at the flames licking every available surface of the building, the fire growing by the minute while firefighters set up to beat it back.  It was everything Moriarty would love.  Big, flashy display with lives in danger and innocent people caught in the middle.  He would have been so proud to see Sherlock narrowing down the clues, working towards finding one little girl in time to save her life. 

He felt an anger like he had never felt before rise up from his gut, burning in his chest.

The answers to John’s questions would lie in one of two places – with Susan Fisher, or in Kostya’s flat.  When he saw Lestrade pull up with Donovan in the passenger seat, he descended upon them before they even made it out of the car.

“Jesus, what the hell happened?’ Lestrade swore, looking at the gruesome scene in dread.

“Things were more complicated than we thought,” Sherlock said.  He pointed towards the police car that held Susan.  “Do not let her talk to anyone but you or Mycroft’s men.  Put her under strict surveillance and she is not to leave your possession, do you understand?”

“Since when are you in charge?” Donovan said, a hint of teasing in her voice.

“Since she was most likely involved with Moriarty,” Sherlock replied stonily, looking her straight in the eye. 

Donovan stiffened immediately, her professionalism coming into full swing.  She nodded, her mouth set, and she marched off to the police car, informing the officers nearby that she would be taking control of the suspect in custody and planting herself in the vehicle.

Sherlock looked at Bill, who was lingering on the edge of the mass of police and fire responders, not attracting a bit of attention.  He nodded almost imperceptibly when he caught Sherlock’s eye, knowing that his responsibility lay in watching the scene and keeping an eye on things.

“You’re taking us back to the flat,” Sherlock announced to Lestrade.  “I take it we won’t need to worry about warrants and all that this time?”

 

* * *

 

Kiev.

St. Petersburg.

Marseille.

London.

That was the pattern.

Four cities, with most of the money in Kostya’s flat coming from Ukraine.  He would hoard it until his funds in London began to diminish, then he would slowly make the necessary exchanges, living off of the huge sums for months at a time.  He had no employment record in London, no indication of how he could be accumulating the money.

Kiev, St. Petersburg, Marseille, London.

Kostya was a young man swept up in something that he had never intended to pursue.  It was the pressure of friends, friends he had made because of a common cultural background, a common language and a familiar way of life. 

He had loved Lillian; that much was clear.  Pictures of her abounded on his laptop, in his phone.  Both devices had revealed nothing in regards to the details of their life together or what they had been involved in.  He had either been very careful to hide it or he’d wanted so little to do with it that it never warranted mention in writing.  And he had been saving as much as he could each month in order to buy them a new life.

Those were the details Sherlock could glean from tearing through the flat.  It gave him no clues as to the connection to Moriarty or the reason why Susan had said the exact words that would be guaranteed to spread fear through Sherlock.

He turned the facts over in his mind as he and John sat in a private meeting room at Scotland Yard, waiting for Donovan and Lestrade to be done questioning Susan.  The muffled hum of his phone in his pocked alerted him to another text received.  He slid the device out of his coat and glanced at the screen, knowing what to expect.

_Sherlock, you need to answer me.  What is going on?  Mrs. Hudson is beyond worried…what’s happened?  - M_

It was the fifth text he had received since arriving at the Yard.  There were a multitude of security reasons why he didn’t wish to let her know the events of the morning via text, but mainly he wanted to be there in person when he had to let her know her life might very well be in danger.

“Kiev, St. Petersburg, Marseille, London,” he muttered, drumming his fingers against the glossy wood table as his thoughts returned to what they’d found at the flat.  “The only paper trail that was left.”

“Do you think he knew?” John said, his tone clipped and angry, as it had been since they’d left the scene.  “Who he was involved with, I mean?”

“No,” Sherlock said quietly.  “He saw an opportunity to get the money he wanted to start over with the girl he loved and he took it.  There was no questioning what it was all about.”

He felt a sudden wash of empathy for Kostya, furious all over again at the actions of Moriarty…or whoever it was perpetuating his crimes.  The feeling was brief as the doors to the meeting room opened and Mycroft walked in, looking rather put out that he was being forced into convening with the authorities at a common police station.

“Is it done?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes,” his brother assured him, clasping his hands behind his back as he walked around the table.  “To your exact specifications.  Care to fill me in on the details of why we have gone this route?”

The door opened again and Lestrade and Donovan stepped into the room.

“We’re about to find out,” Sherlock said, watching Donovan drop a file of papers onto the table, planting her hands on her hips.  Lestrade sank into a chair, looking completely worn out.

“She says she doesn’t know who wanted you involved,” Donovan told them.  “The girl’s boyfriend had contacted her when he realized he would get a nice payday for getting you involved.  Told her they would all live in comfort if she succeeded.  Figured he could get her to leave them alone that way.  Charming bloke.”

“He was doing what he could to make their lives better,” Sherlock interrupted.

“Didn’t work, did it?” Lestrade said.

“Why the fire?  What happened there?” John asked.

Donovan looked down at the floor before her eyes flicked up to Lestrade’s; waiting to see which one of them would have to deliver news they didn’t want to.

“When they swept the building, they found two more girls in there,” Donovan finally said, letting out a tired sigh.  “They weren’t as lucky as Miss Fisher.”

“It was set up as a sort of residence,” Lestrade added on.  “Couple of beds, some personal things.  We don’t know what caused the fire yet – could’ve been anything in a building that neglected.  The explosion you saw was just a coincidence.  Spare bit of industrial chemicals left over in an abandoned room.”

“We’re not sure yet, but based on evidence found at the scene, the girls appear to be Russian,” Donovan concluded.  “Very young.”

“They will be,” Sherlock said with certainty, leaning back in his chair and resting his head against his fist.  “And I think you’ll find it was an exchange operation, one from which Kostya benefited greatly.”

“And how does all of this lead the lot of you to believe it’s connected to James Moriarty?” Mycroft asked calmly from his place at the head of the table, commanding the attention of the room.

Sherlock tilted his head towards his brother, reading every little movement in his face, the way he had placed his fists down on the table, leaning into his knuckles.  He was doubtful that they were facing Moriarty again, but he was alert, his brow drawn in the serious line that meant he was done joking around. 

“She said that someone owes me.  They wanted to see me work,” Sherlock said solemnly, knowing Mycroft would understand the personal nature of those words.

“Every movement they made over the past months will be accounted for,” Mycroft said, straightening to his full height.  “In the meantime, you may want to consider a trip to Baker Street to talk to Miss Hooper.  She wasn’t entirely pleased with being placed under armed guard.”

 

* * *

 

Molly jumped up the moment she heard the front door of the building open, rushing to the top of the stairwell as Sherlock started up the stairs.  Mrs. Hudson had heard him as well, popping out of her flat and rounding to the base of the stairs so that he was effectively trapped between the two women.

“Sherlock, why were there men invading my building this morning?” Mrs. Hudson demanded.

“The lack of appreciation for bringing a few men into your life astounds me,” he said cheekily, though Molly could see the worry under his flippancy.  Waving his hand in the air, he continued up the stairs.  “Security measure, Mrs. Hudson.  Please continue about your day.”

When he reached Molly, he took her hand and pulled her into 221B, shutting the door behind them.

“This isn’t a simple security measure,” she said, slipping her hand from his and walking over to the window to look out at the obvious and not so obvious agents scattered along Baker Street.  She knew there was at least one on the roof as he had gone up there via the stairwell and never come back down.  “This is house arrest.  They wouldn’t let me leave for work.”

“You’re on call today,” he pointed out.

“My cat?” she argued, stepping closer to him.

“You can’t ask your neighbor to look after him?”

Molly’s jaw tensed.

“I might like to wear some fresh clothes eventually,” she said, gesturing down to point out the fact that she was wearing a pair of his pyjama trousers, rolled several times at the waist so she could walk without tripping, and one of his t-shirts.  “Why the dramatics?”

He wouldn’t look at her, his eyes focused far off into space, and she knew that he wasn’t simply being inattentive to her questions.  He blinked a few times before taking a sharp breath.

“The case…the daughter of the psychic.  It was tied to Moriarty,” he said, his voice disturbingly calm. 

Feeling her flesh pull tight into goosebumps, Molly swallowed.  Sherlock moved closer to her and pulled her into his arms.  He smelled like smoke.

“Even if it’s not him, your involvement in my suicide is public.  If I missed someone in the network…if there is the slightest chance they know what you did, they will want to remedy the fact that we fooled them,” he murmured into her hair.  “He didn’t win.  And he won’t stop until he does win, in the end.”

“I thought,” Molly started, taking a moment to gather her thoughts.  “I thought, after a while, that maybe it was a joke…that whole broadcast.  It all calmed down so much, we never found anything.  I hoped…I just hoped that it wasn’t real.”

“It is very real.”

She pulled back, looking up at him and curling her fingers around the lapels of his coat.

“I know you want to protect everyone,” she told him gently.  “But Sherlock, I can’t stay locked up here indefinitely until everything is fixed.  I mean, did you lock down John’s house as well?”

Sherlock’s bottom lip pulled tight and he glanced away from her, looking slightly guilty.

“Oh my god, you did, didn’t you?” she said.

“Well if I can’t keep an eye on them, then that is the only solution, obviously.”

“Would it make you feel better to go over there?” she asked.

Sherlock tilted his head, scrunching his nose in a noncommittal way that let her know that was exactly what would make him feel better.  She laid her hand against his cheek, stroking his skin with her thumb.

“Well, come on, then.  We can stop by mine so I can at least wear clothes my size,” she said with a smile.

 


	15. Chapter 15

Mary was just coming downstairs from putting Joanna down for her nap when the front door opened and John walked in.  He paused after shutting the door, letting out a deep breath and looking at her with an overwhelmed expression.

“So you got past the king’s guard?” she joked.

“I can’t say this was an overreaction on Sherlock’s part,” he told her, walking forwards and placing his hands on her upper arms, rubbing gently.  “Though the pat down in front of my own home by man right out of a Bond film was a _tad_ uncalled for.”

“The one with the black hair?  Massive emerald ring on his finger?” Mary asked.

“That was the one.”

“Mm.  Should I tell him my gun is bigger than his?” she said with a grin.

John laughed, pulling her close and planting a kiss on her temple.

“Ooh, you smell like a fire, what happened?” she said with a grimace, wrinkling her nose as she got a good whiff.

“Pulled our victim out of a burning building.”

Mary pulled back and felt a wave of panic flood through her.  Minutes before the MI6 agents had showed up at her door, she had received a text from Sherlock that stated Moriarty was once again a threat.  He hadn’t mentioned anything about what had happened out on the case with John.  She’d assumed their investigation had been cut short due to some unforeseen circumstance.

“You did what?” she cried, her eyes sweeping over him.  “Oh my god, are you all right?”

“I’m fine, Mary,” he insisted, grasping her hands and giving them a squeeze before reaching to remove his jacket.  He sniffed it and made a face, tossing it next to the front door.  “What about you, is everything okay here?  Joanna’s fine?”

“She’s fine,” Mary assured him, following as he started up the stairs.  “John, wait, stop a minute.”

He stilled, turning to look down at her expectantly.

“You ran into a burning building to save someone?” she asked for clarification, not sure whether to feel immense pride or absolute horror at what he’d done.

“Well, not _into_ it,” he said, tilting his head to one side.  “Towards it.  The girl’s mother and boyfriend had…had brought her most of the way…”

His face grew serious as he recalled the events and he explained all that had happened.  Clutching the collar of her shirt, Mary stared at him in worry.

“You still don’t know what she was involved in?” she said quietly.

“Not for certain.  Sherlock has an inkling, but given the way it all ended…that was the least of his worries,” he explained.  “I think Molly was his biggest concern.”

Stepping up the stairs until she was level with him, Mary wrapped her arms around his waist and pulled him tight. 

“Hey,” John murmured, running a soothing hand along her back.  “You okay?”

“I don’t like the idea of you being in danger,” she said firmly.  “How can I both love and hate the thought of you doing what you did?”

“Because I am your sexy action husband?”

Mary snorted.  Even in the middle of a crisis, he could make her laugh. 

“You’re also the father of my child,” she told him, sobering quickly at the thought of Joanna.  “And I want you to come home to us at the end of the day.”

“Is my night job getting too exciting for you?”

Underneath the joking tone, Mary could hear the concern in his voice.  They were quite a pair.  Addicted to danger and fighting for safety at the same time. 

“It would be a bit silly of me to think so,” she said, pulling back to look at him.  She frowned, considering their situation.  “Is Sherlock all right?  Does he need any help?”

“I believe his exact words were, ‘Go home and stay put,’” John told her, reaching for her hand and holding it as they continued up the stairs and towards the bedroom.  “Rich advice coming from him.”

“He’s really worried this time,” Mary said, watching her husband shed his clothes and search for fresh ones.  “How long is he going to make everyone live under the watchful eye of the British government?”

“Dunno,” John muttered, pulling on a grey jumper.  “When I left him, he was rambling about tracking communication records.  He’s outsmarted Moriarty before.  He can do it again.”

_He threw himself off a building the last time_ , Mary thought, seeing the dark look creep into John’s eyes as he recounted Sherlock’s last success against the villain.  As much as she had quickly grown to love Sherlock, she could never forget how broken John was when she’d first met him.  The devastation in his life from losing his best friend had been immense.  After everything they had all been through over the past year and a half, she could only hope that Sherlock’s plans would spare them all the grief of more loss and heartbreak. 

Late in the afternoon, while John sat with Joanna in the lounge, entertaining her with a bright yellow rattle, Mary contemplated testing the competency of Mycroft’s security team.  When she’d started to gather things from the pantry to prepare dinner, she’d discovered they were nearly out of potatoes.  Not exactly easy to make shepherd’s pie with two small spuds.

“We’re not supposed to let you leave,” was the answer she received from their keeper when she’d tried to run to the market.

“Then which one of you is going to trot off to Tesco for me?” she responded.  The two men at her front door exchanged looks, but said nothing.  “I know the Holmes boys have people catering to their every whim, but in this house we fetch our own groceries and cook our own meals.  Now, which one of you is going so I can feed my family?”

The younger of the two reluctantly shuffled forward and accepted the fiver she held out.  She doubted running errands was what he’d had in mind when he’d joined MI6, but there was nothing to be done about it. 

Not ten minutes later, there was a knock at the door and Mary found Sherlock and Molly on her front stoop.

“Wanted to make sure John followed my instructions,” Sherlock said in response to Mary’s confused expression.

Behind him, Molly looked at her and mouthed, ‘He was worried.’

Mary ushered them inside, holding back a smirk as she did so.  John greeted them as they neared the lounge and Molly walked towards him eagerly, her attention quickly turning to Joanna as she smiled at the baby.  Mary took the opportunity to take hold of Sherlock’s elbow, steering him towards the kitchen.

“Can I chat with you?” she said under her breath.

“We’ve yet to find the exact connection to the Fisher case,” Sherlock started telling her quickly, his mind in full detective mode.  “It lies with the boyfriend, I’m sure of it, the words they knew - ”

“No no,” Mary interrupted, leaning against the counter and crossing her arms.  “Not about that.  How are we supposed to function normally if we’re not allowed to leave the house?”

He looked at her, his face blank. 

“You’re not.  You’re supposed to stay here, protected,” he explained.

“Sherlock,” she said gently, knowing his savior tendencies would be running at full throttle.  “John and I can handle ourselves.  And I need to be able to leave the house.”  She leaned forward, her volume dropping as she heard John and Molly approach the room.  “You trapped me in my home with a three month old baby who is used to her mid-morning stroll in her pram to fall asleep.  And I’m low on food.  Lift the gates on Castle Watson.”

“Give me time to secure the connection to Moriarty,” he negotiated.

“Three days and I’m taking my daughter for a bloody walk in the fresh air,” she whispered, cutting off his argument with a cheerful, “John, Molly!  Something to nibble on before dinner is ready?”

 

* * *

 

 

Smoke eased into Sherlock’s lungs as he stood on the Watson’s front stoop, carefully eyeing the security detail dotting the street.  The cigarette was a welcome comfort in the damp night air.  The only reason he would get away with smoking in the first place was that Joanna’s nursery window was on the other side of the house – no chance of the smoke drifting.  Then again, Mary was ready to turn him inside out for taking control of their lives.  She wouldn’t need much motivation to chastise him for indulging. 

_Overreaction_. 

That was the word that continually came up since they had taken Susan Fisher into custody that morning.  Mycroft had every available resource tracking each and every movement of the Fishers and Kostya Hubenko for the last two years.  And once he felt confident of the security of his friends, Sherlock would be joining that search.  There were answers to be found beyond London, beyond England. 

His phone chimed.

_How long do you plan to hide behind the curtain of domesticity to avoid dealing with all this?_

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock momentarily wondered if Mycroft genuinely enjoyed living a life of detachment.  God knew Sherlock had lived too many years being miserable, believing to his core that he didn’t want anyone near him and no one wanted him either.  Mycroft had always been better at living with that belief.

_I didn’t realize securing people’s lives qualified as an act of domesticity – SH_

_You would do better by them if you were pursuing the leads we have, rather than enjoying dinner and pudding._

_I’m not leaving them – SH_

_Well, since you seem to be all the security they need, I’ll just tell my people to go home and save the payroll._

_Don’t be dramatic, Mycroft.  You know very well what we’re up against. - SH_

_As do you, dear brother.  So why aren’t you on your way to Kiev?_

Sherlock grimaced and shoved his phone back into his pocket.  It wasn’t lack of interest that was keeping him still for the time being.  Every fiber of his being wanted to tear into the cities Kostya had been connected to, hunting down the person responsible for bringing this terror into their lives once again.

Dropping his cigarette to the ground, he extinguished it with his shoe before going back inside.

Molly was asleep on the sofa, hugging a pillow to her chest.  He walked over to her, carefully resuming his position on the cushion next to her feet and leaning back into the soft pillows.  She stirred, looking at him with bleary eyes.

“Everything all right?” she asked, her voice raspy with sleep.

For several moments, he didn’t answer, simply looking at her and wondering what good deed he had done in his past to deserve someone like her in his life.  He wasn’t one to believe in karma or any such reward, but he knew Molly was a gift he barely deserved.

“I need to leave,” he finally said.

“What?” Molly said, sitting up in confusion.

“Not now,” he clarified.  “But maybe in a day or two.  We’ve exhausted our leads in London.  Whatever’s going on, the answers aren’t here.”

“I’m going with you,” she said without missing a beat.

He smiled sadly at her resolve.  It certainly wasn’t lack of faith in her strength or ability to actually help him that had him denying her.  But there was absolutely no way he would bring her into that sort of danger.

“Not if you’re a target,” he said softly.

“We don’t know that I actually am,” she reminded him.

“We have to assume,” Sherlock said firmly.  “You, Mrs. Hudson, John, everyone connected to me in any way.  Taking you into the middle of it would be feeding you to the wolves…”

Molly opened her mouth, prepared to argue, but stopped.  Something changed in her face, melancholy creeping into her eyes.  He knew he was letting her down.  Twice before in their relationship he had told her he was leaving.  One of those times she had had no reason to hope that he would ever come back.  And now he had gone and let them become something meaningful to one another before needing to walk away once again.  He really was the worst sort of boyfriend anyone could be unfortunate enough to have.

In contrast to the self-deprecating thoughts running through his head, Molly shuffled over to him on the cushions, one arm looping around his stomach as she laid her head on his shoulder.  He let out a breath, easing into the comfort of her, his arm going around her shoulder to hold her close.

“Make sure to come back,” she whispered.

 

* * *

 

After staring at the imperfections in the ceiling for far too long, John shifted in bed, turning over to face Mary.  Her eyes opened at his movement and she gave him a small smile.

“Can’t sleep either?” she asked quietly.

“Not a wink,” he told her with a sigh.  “It’s half one.”

“At least we’ll already be awake for Jo’s two a.m. fuss,” she said, trying to look on the bright side.

John laughed, thinking that Sherlock and Joanna were about tied for causing him sleepless nights in recent days.  He let out another sigh before breaking into laughter again at the thought.

“God, John, what’s so funny?” Mary asked with a grin, catching his laughter and giggling.

“I don’t really know.  Sherlock, being on par with a baby,” he said, trying to explain his thoughts.  A wave of fuzziness hit his brain and he sobered momentarily.  Something wasn’t right.  He struggled to sit up, feeling the strangeness of vertigo while sitting in his own bed.  “Mary, do you feel all right...”

The grin on Mary’s face dropped away slowly and she looked up at him, her eyes wide.

“I can’t…I feel like I’m floating or something,” she said, her speech starting to become sloppy.

Out of the corner of his eye, John saw movement in the hall.  Two dark figures strode past their room.  Mary turned and looked in the same direction.  John’s heartbeat sped up when she threw back the blankets, struggling to get out of the bed and stay on her feet.

“Mary,” he tried to call out, staggering to his feet and feeling all of his balance fail him. 

He fell to his knees, the bone thudding against the wood floor, and used his arms to move his body along the edge of the mattress.  He watched Mary practically crawling to the door, panic radiating from her body as Joanna’s tiny cry sounded from her room.

“No,” he cried.  “No!”

His fury and fear pushed him to struggle to his feet, fumbling a few steps towards the door before fuzziness once again claimed his mind.  He listed heavily to one side and lost his footing, hitting the wall.  Shoulder exploding in pain, he registered Mary lying barely conscious on the floor.

A dark figure appeared in the doorway and John felt his blood boil, willing his body to move and feeling horrifically helpless when it wouldn’t.  The figure knelt down in front of Mary, leaning closer.

“Do not worry, dragă…we won’t hurt her.”

The voice was muddled, almost mechanical, and all John could think before he blacked out was that he would hunt that voice down for the rest of his life for taking his daughter.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock couldn’t remember the last time he had struggled so much to stay awake, not when he had been sleeping fairly regularly.  Molly’s body was warm against his.  The day had been taxing.  Neither of those things explained why his eyelids drooped every few minutes, pushing him towards sleep.

It wasn’t until he heard a faint thud from upstairs and the wail of a baby that he suddenly knew what was happening.  The scent of the air, the sweetness that he had attributed to air fresheners in the home…it wasn’t right.

He checked Molly’s pulse, his movements clumsy.  He had to focus to get his body to obey his commands, gently moving her away from him in order to stand up.  His head swam, but he stayed upright.

They were being gassed.

Reaching into his pocket, he fumbled for his phone, the screen blurring as he tried to navigate to Mycroft’s information.  Footsteps sounded on the stairs and Sherlock looked up, his leaden feet moving towards the doorway of the lounge.  He saw two men, dressed completely in black, appear at the bottom of the stairs.  They had slim gas masks over their faces.

And one of them had Joanna.  She was motionless, her eyes closed and her limbs draping limply over the man’s arm.

A white hot rage filled Sherlock and he launched himself forward, fighting against the chemicals invading his body.  The man not holding the baby backhanded him, easily knocking him to the ground and sending his phone clattering down the hall.  Pain shot through Sherlock’s face and he tried to push himself up, failing miserably.

He reached out, grabbing the trousers of the nearest figure and pulling with what little strength his muscles retained.  An amused laugh came from the man.

“You want to come too?” the man asked

_Romanian._ _Late forties.  Heavy drinker._

“Well, it wasn’t the plan,” the man continued.  “But I am…flexible.  Yeah?”

He snapped his fingers and a pair of hands grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders, hauling him to his feet and dragging him out the door while he shifted in and out of consciousness.

 


	16. Chapter 16

Coming out of the fog was just as agonizing as slipping into it for Mary.  She wanted to move her body before it was ready, her limbs moving awkwardly, too quickly for her to be able to control the movement.  But she had to get up.  She had no idea how long she’d been out.

She couldn’t hear Joanna’s cries anymore. 

It felt like someone had reached down her throat and pulled her heart out.  The pain in her body was so much worse than anything she had ever experienced in her years as an assassin. 

She couldn’t be too late.  She couldn’t be.

Getting her palms solidly beneath her chest, she pushed up, dragging her knees forward until she was in a seated position.  She grasped for the doorframe, her head becoming clearer ever so slowly, and braced herself as she stood on wobbly legs.  The next thing she knew, a strong arm was around her waist, helping her, and she felt John’s tender hands holding onto her.

“They took her,” Mary nearly sobbed.  “Jesus, John, they took…”

“We’re going to get her back,” John said firmly in her ear, his voice shaking with anger.  He guided them towards the stairs.  “We’ll find them.”

The words gutted her.  By the time they reached the bottom of the stairs, she knew her naïve hope that they would somehow catch the kidnappers on the run was futile.  Her chest tightened horribly and she struggled to breathe, to hold back the sobs that were threatening to burst from her mouth.

The front door was wide open.  Mycroft’s men were slumped on the front stairs and John rushed forward to check them, looking around outside as he did so.

“Drugged,” he said, pulling a small hypodermic device from one of their necks.  He flung it to the ground and it tinkled against the stone steps.

“Sherlock and Molly,” Mary said suddenly, remembering with a jolt that they had been sleeping downstairs, her eyes widening.

John’s head dropped as he clearly caught on, as distraught as she was to the point that it blinded him to everything else.  They turned and dashed into the lounge, Mary flipping on the light to expose Molly draped across the sofa.  Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.  Her heart jumped in her chest, hopeful for the moment that he could have followed the men.

John knelt beside Molly, brushing the hair away from her face and pressing his fingers to the side of her neck.  At his touch, she stirred and blinked, her eyes opening slowly.

“Whashappening?” she mumbled.

“Where’s Sherlock?” John asked quickly, helping her sit up.

“Dunno,” Molly said, rubbing a hand over her face.  “He was here…fell asleep with’im.  Why can’t I wake up?”

“Someone gassed the house,” John told her, sitting back on his heels.  “Took Joanna.  And Sherlock is gone too.  Dammit.” 

Mary knew that his rage was barely being held below the surface.  She could see it in the way his fists balled, in the set of his jaw, the short, sharp breaths he took.  He was about to lose it.  She was going to have to be the logical one if they had any chance of working quickly to track the kidnappers… their promise not to hurt her was one Mary hardly believed.  Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes and focused her mind, pushing the crippling panic down.

“What?” Molly exclaimed.  “They did what?”

 _They promised not to hurt her…_ Mary thought over and over.  She had to be in control of her emotions.

“Did you hear anything?  Do you know where he went?” John asked.

_“Do not worry, dragă…”_

Mary’s eyes snapped open.

“Dragă,” she said, feeling her blood run cold.  John and Molly looked up at her.  “John, the building that you found Lillian Fisher in…it was burned?”

“On fire, yeah,” he said, standing up.  “Like a tinder box.”

“Was there anyone else in there?” she demanded, though she was sure she already knew the answer.

“Two…two other girls,” John replied, his face growing concerned.

“Young girls.  They were always young girls,” Mary rambled, her adrenaline spiking as she quickly realized what they were up against.  “Put on the streets or in brothels until the police got too close and then…they never left anything behind, oh God, John, it’s not Moriarty.  It’s not Moriarty!”

She was halfway up the stairs to the bedroom before John and Molly called after her, running to catch up.

“What do you mean, it’s not Moriarty?” John cried, lending a hand to Molly as she wavered on her feet, still fighting the effects of the gas.

“You have to trust me,” Mary said, throwing open the wardrobe and ripping clothing off the hangers, tossing a set of trousers and a jumper to John before changing into a pair of jeans and pulling a zippie over her head.  “You need to take me to that building, I need to be sure.”

“Mary, what’s going on?” John nearly shouted, holding the clothing in his hand with an iron grip.

“Do you really want to know?” she said, stopping and staring at her husband.  Her heart was racing at the thought.  “It’s everything you promised to walk away from.  To put behind us.”

He was silent for a moment, but his face was open, pleading with her.

“Tell me,” he said.

“It was a hit in Russia,” she told him haltingly, the words feeling odd.  “A man who lured or kidnapped teenaged girls to work as prostitutes.  They were disposable, all to make him rich and give him influence.  You can imagine how they were treated.  When he would get close to being caught, they would pull up stakes and destroy anything left behind.  Always.  Usually arson.  Sometimes explosives if the situation was desperate enough.  If they were feeling generous they would let the girls go with them.  The authorities could never stop him.  It was the first time…the first time I did a hit that wasn’t authorized.”

A small gasp made Mary’s head turn and she felt the blood drain from her face.  She blamed the haze of the fading nitrous oxide, but she still felt foolish for forgetting that Molly was standing in the doorway.  One look at the pathologist’s face and Mary knew that every unanswered question Molly had had over the past year was slowly being solved.  Mary couldn’t tell if she was frightened or simply stunned.  It would be one more person to judge what she had done, to doubt who she was.

“How,” Molly started, swallowing hard before continuing.  “If you – if he’s dead, then who…?”

“There was a brother,” Mary explained, reaching for a pair of trainers and pulling them on as she spoke.  “Never could find him.”

“We will this time,” John practically growled, not paying Molly’s presence one bit of mind as he changed his clothes.  “Molly, you’re coming with us.”

“Should we – I mean, shouldn’t we contact Mycroft?” Molly said.  Mary exchanged a look with John.

“He doesn’t know about me, Molly,” she said quietly.

Molly gaped and Mary couldn’t blame her.  Mycroft, the British Government, had remained incredibly in the dark thanks to Sherlock.  When it was Moriarty, she was willing to accept the help, but now she couldn’t risk the exposure.  She reached into the back of the wardrobe, rapidly punching in the code to the small safe they kept and retrieving their guns.  She handed John his weapon and slipped her own into the waistband of her jeans. 

“Let’s go,” she said, plotting exactly what she intended to do when she found the man who had walked out of her house with her child.

 

* * *

 

Molly sat in the back of the car as they sped towards the crime scene in the middle of the night.  She’d checked her phone a dozen times, hoping each time she looked that a message from Sherlock would magically appear.  Some little hint that he and Joanna were okay was all she wanted.  She felt stupefied by everything.

Not for the first time since climbing into the car, she snuck a glance at Mary.  An assassin.  The very last thing Molly would have guessed as the source of all the tension and drama of the last year.  Mary was the one Sherlock had been protecting from Magnussen.  She was the reason Sherlock had shot him.

And there was very little doubt in her mind that Mary was the one who had shot Sherlock.  It explained everything and nothing.  The only thing she could manage to work out in her mind was that Sherlock and John had made peace with all that had happened and there had to be a reason for that.  She needed so many answers to figure out why that was, but there was no time to spend asking the questions.

Getting Sherlock and Joanna back was the priority.  She could worry about the revelations later.

There were still a two officers guarding the unstable, damaged building when they drove near, and John took the car down a quiet side street to avoid attracting attention.  Molly did her best to keep up with them when they hit the ground, working their way through shadows and between buildings to sneak in through the back.  She was nearly knocked back by the scent of smoke and wet wood.  The whole structure seemed to be weighted down, waiting to fall under the burden of the destruction any minute and only kept up by the brick façade.

John led them up a groaning metal staircase towards the room he had been told held the bodies of the other girls.  Molly knew how stupid it was to be walking on the charred floor, hyperaware of every step and mindful of every weakness or soft spot.  There was no choice if they wanted to find evidence that would help them.

The first room they entered held remnants of a crude residence.  Blackened bed frames sat on one side and singed, ashen personal effects were everywhere, some still smoldering.  Her eyes narrowed immediately on an incongruity in the floorboards and she knew that was the spot in which the bodies had lain.  Carefully, she picked her way towards it with Mary and John right behind, kneeling to inspect the ground.

“Blood stains,” she said.

“Yeah, Lestrade said it was a mess,” John whispered with a grimace.

“It’s not from being burned,” Molly clarified.  “They bled out.”

“They were shot,” Mary muttered, her hand sifting through a pile of debris and extracting a dull grey shell casing.  “It won’t be long before the postmortems reveal what happened.”

“A few days at most,” Molly agreed.

“We need to work quickly,” Mary told them, standing again.  “John, show me where the explosion happened.  If they rigged it, we might be able to find something they left behind.”

Their shoes crunched on the debris as they walked away and Molly took only a few seconds to watch where they were headed before returning her attention to the forensic evidence before her.  The blood stains spread over a wide area, blocked on one side by a pile of what used to be clothing.  Molly scooted towards the pile, thinking that if some of the clothing had survived the flames, there might be a chance to pull evidence, perhaps letting them know where the girls had been outside of the building.  Maybe even DNA evidence to track someone down…

Cold steel suddenly pressed against her neck made her start, her heart practically jumping out of her chest, but she contained her fear and stilled quickly, listening intently to whoever it was that had snuck up on her. 

“Hands up, please.  Slowly,” said a male voice.

He sounded Eastern European, but Molly couldn’t place his accent exactly.  She carefully lifted her hands away from the singed remains of clothing, her arms rising in the air as she took controlled breaths to remain calm. 

“Now on your feet.  Let’s go.”

She followed his command, flinching when he grasped the back of her neck and directed her out of the room and towards the back of the building.  She could hear the faint movements of John and Mary in another part of the building, frantically tearing through what little evidence was left to find some sort of a clue.  If they were near enough…

“One peep and you’ll be joining the other girls they found here,” the man’s harsh voice whispered in her ear as they approached the back door.  “We’d prefer to keep you alive, but it’s not a requirement.”

He pushed her outside and down the same alley they had used to get to the building.  A dark blue van was parked at the mouth of the alley, waiting, and Molly started to feel true panic rise up in her chest.  She thrashed, attempting to wrench herself away from the man’s grasp while a voice in her head asked where exactly she planned to run if she did escape. 

 _Fire escape on the back of the building, roofs close enough to jump from one to another, head east and you will be visible to the officer_ , Sherlock’s voice recited the directions in her mind.

“Don’t do anything stupid, girl,” the man warned her, tightening his hold on her arm.  “Or your friends are going to find your body right here.”

To prove that he wasn’t lying, he released the safety on his gun and she felt the hard barrel press into the base of her neck. 

“Okay,” she gasped, trying to calm him.  “All right.”

When they reached the van, the sliding door was pulled open from the inside and Molly was shoved inside.  It stank of tobacco and liquor.  She quickly settled herself on the cold leather seat as the man climbed in behind her and slammed the door shut, speaking quickly in another language to the driver.  In the next moment, they were speeding away from the alley.  The man next to her grabbed something from underneath the seat and shoved it in her direction.  It was a strip of dark, dirty fabric.  She looked up at him in confusion, properly able to see his features for the first time.  He was younger than she would have expected, with short, dark blond hair and a broad face.

“Over your eyes,” he instructed her gruffly, gesturing to his own face.  Molly hesitated, repulsed by the condition of the rag.  “You can be blindfolded, or you can be unconscious.  Your decision.”

Reluctantly, Molly placed the rag over her eyes and tied it behind her head, hoping that wherever they were going, John and Mary were well on their way to finding out how to find them.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock woke with a dull headache, his body stiff from having been dumped on the concrete floor of whatever location he’d been taken to.  He groaned, pushing himself up and feeling soreness in his right bicep.  Reaching over with his left hand, he massaged the spot and came to the quick conclusion that he’d been drugged to keep him quiet and oblivious during transport. 

Looking around, he found little reason to hope that he would be making a clever escape.  He was in a room with cement walls, no windows, and an imposing metal door.  And he was damn cold.  The bastards had taken his coat. 

He could remember the moments before falling into unconsciousness, the unfamiliar voices and the sight of Joanna.  Every precaution he had set into place had failed spectacularly.  It was not the retaliation he’d been expecting.  For that reason alone, he knew that whoever had managed the kidnapping was not working for James Moriarty.

As if in answer to his thoughts, the door to his cell was unbolted and opened with a whine.  A tall, muscular guard held it open for a man in a tailored suit who walked unhurriedly into the room.  Sherlock’s mind came to a momentary halt when he laid eyes on the man’s face.

“Not quite like our last meeting, is it Mr. Holmes?”

“Vincent Lee,” Sherlock said slowly, pushing himself to his feet.

“My professional name, though I am flattered you remembered,” he said, stepping further into the cell and clasping his hands behind his back. 

On the night of the gala, Sherlock hadn’t thought to pay close attention to the individuals he’d met.  His focus had been elsewhere and the tedium of meeting new people had kept him from caring the smallest bit about them.  Now, with his mind fully concentrated on the man, he could hear the lingering traces of a Romanian accent beneath the carefully acquired Northampton dialect.  He could see the years of wandering between worlds, acting the philanthropist while managing brothels on the weekend.

No, this was nothing to do with Moriarty whatsoever.

“I am familiar with your reputation, Mr. Holmes,” Vincent told him.  “I can only imagine you’ve deduced plenty about me already.  Would you like me to fill in the gaps?”

“Where’s Joanna?” Sherlock demanded, choosing to ignore the mind games for the moment and find out if the child was safe.

“She’s comfortable, don’t worry,” Vincent said with a wave of his hand.

“Prove it, show her to me,” Sherlock snapped.

“No, I think not, not right now,” Vincent chuckled. 

“You didn’t plan on taking me,” Sherlock said, repeating the words he could remember from the Watsons’ house.  “Your objective was always Joanna.  And it’s not me who would be hurt to the bone by that…it’s Mary.”

Vincent smiled at him.

“You’re as good as he said you were,” he praised Sherlock.  “I admit, it was fun to watch you dash around to find the Fisher girl.  Even if you did get distracted by the most cliché clues.”

“The message for me…it was all you,” Sherlock stated.

“Absolutely,” Vincent confirmed.  “And before you embarrass yourself with the question, yes, James is very much dead.  But he was a generous acquaintance in the brief time I had the pleasure to run in his circle.  Quite the fan of yours, and boastful as well.  Made it very easy to know which buttons to push to distract all of you.  Funny how advantageous that friendship turned out to be.”

It was a hard slap in the face.  For months, Sherlock had been pursuing the wrongs leads, looking into the wrong networks.  And now he’d rendered himself useless by trying to act the hero and getting himself kidnapped. 

But there was still Mary.  She was, God willing, unhurt and capable of doing everything he couldn’t.

“Mary has always been the goal.  You’ll find out why in good time,” Vincent said, checking his watch quickly and turning towards the door.  “You were just a bit of fun.” 

Before he left the room completely, he turned and looked at Sherlock with a genuinely curious expression.

“I do have one question for you, though,” he said congenially.  “Your girlfriend – does she speak Russian?”

Sherlock’s skin flushed hot and he had to restrain himself before answering with the utmost control.

“No.”

“Mm.  Pity.  It’s always so tiresome to have to teach them.”

 


	17. Chapter 17

“How the fuck are they doing this?” John bellowed, his hands gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white.

They’d left Molly for less than a minute and that had been all that was needed for her to be taken as well. He was certain that was the explanation; Molly wasn’t exactly known for wandering off at inopportune times and certainly not when they were facing a very dangerous criminal. He could only imagine what must have happened for her to go without resisting, without calling for help when they were so close by.  They’d spent nearly twenty minutes looking for any sign of where she had gone or what had transpired until the noise they made started to draw the attention of the police guard. At that point, they had had no choice but to leave and regroup elsewhere.

“They know exactly what they’re doing,” Mary told him, leaning forward in the passenger seat as they whipped through the streets back to their house.  “They’re not afraid to step right out into plain sight to do what they do. It’s how they’ve always operated. They’re bold, they’re fast, and they don’t…”

John felt his throat constrict at the hitch in his wife’s voice.  Glancing over at her, he could see her eyes starting to water.  Keeping one hand firmly on the wheel, he reached over with the other to grasp her hand.

“They don’t care who they hurt,” Mary finished, sniffing forcefully and wiping at her eyes.

There was nothing he could say to that. Because all he could think upon hearing those words was that he already planned to have no mercy for the person responsible and he wasn’t sure unhinged anger would do either of them any good at the moment.  Best to save that for when they were face to face with the kidnappers.

As he turned the car onto their street, it became immediately apparent that Mycroft had been alerted to the events during the night.

“Shit,” he said, looking at the swarm of cars and suits outside their house.  It wasn’t even dawn yet and a few lights had come on in their neighbors’ windows, curtains subtly pushed aside to see what the fuss was.  “Shit, what do we do?”

“We tell him we tried to go after whoever broke in the second we woke up,” Mary said quickly.  “It’s the truth.”

“Right,” John agreed, steeling himself, trying to rationalize hiding what they knew in order to protect their secrets. To protect Mary. If the people they were facing wanted to deal with Mary, there was no telling what they would do if the British Government came knocking instead.  He wouldn’t risk Joanna’s safety for anything, even if it meant lying to Mycroft.

It took only moments for Mycroft to approach them as they got out of the car, his usually nonchalant stride burdened by worry.

“Would either of you care to explain to me why my people called about being attacked and rendered unconscious?” he demanded as he joined them on the pavement.  “And where exactly my brother is?”

“They took him.  And Molly.  And my daughter,” Mary said, her anger uncontained as she spoke the last two words.

“They gassed the whole place, knocked us all out. We tried to follow,” John jumped in quickly, recognizing that Mary found offense in Mycroft’s seeming unconcern for anyone missing other than Sherlock.

The older man turned his gaze on John, his eyes narrowing slightly and his head cocking to the side.  It was disturbingly similar to when Sherlock looked at him before unleashing some insult.  It made him stand up taller, waiting for the words.

“Who was it?” Mycroft asked in all seriousness.

John licked his lips before answering.

“Dunno exactly.”

“John, after so much time in the company of my brother, I would expect you to be a better liar by now,” Mycroft told him irritably.

“It wasn’t Moriarty,” Mary said firmly. “Not the person we saw.”

With the noise of agents moving around them and car doors opening and closing as people came and went, Mycroft looked at them, considering their words.  John knew that at the slightest inclination, he could have them both detained until the truth came out.  Before he had the chance to do anything, a female agent came jogging towards them.

“Sir, there’s a phone call,” the woman said, glancing at Mary.  “They’re asking for Mrs. Watson.”

John looked at her, knowing by the expression on her face that she hadn’t expected to be contacted so soon. They both knew enough about kidnappings to understand the weight a phone call held.  The feeling of dread in his chest, the horrible squeeze on his heart, only worsened when he considered how eager this instigator was; how very intent he was on making things personal.

They followed the agent into the house, into the lounge where a small group was surrounding the table by the window that held their mail, a notepad, and their house phone.  Wires had already been hooked in, attached to a computer to trace the call and record everything.  John panicked for a moment, knowing that if whoever was on the other end of the call breathed a word about who Mary really was, it was all over.

Unsurprisingly, Mary walked towards the phone with complete courage written all over her face, lifting the receiver to her ear.

“Hello?”

“Hello Mary.”

The voice came through the laptop, the visual sound waves on the screen jumping along with each vowel.  It was an odd accent, a blend between British and something distinctly Eastern.

“What a lovely name.  Mary Watson.  You couldn’t make up a more charming, homey name, now, could you?”

“What do you want?” Mary said, her voice shaking slightly.  “Tell us what you want from us to get her back.”

A tutting noise came from the speakers.

“Just her?  Not the others?  I’m surprised, Mary Watson. I’d heard you’d grown so soft hearted as of late.”

A heavy silence filled the room. John knew it wasn’t true. He knew Mary wanted all of them back quickly, unharmed.  But this man could bring doubt to her sincerity with just one question.  It was a trick he’d learned not to fall for from their enemies, that planting of doubt.

“What do you want?” Mary repeated, her tone lowering to a dangerous timbre.  Even Mycroft shifted at the sound.

“You, Mrs. Watson.  You’ll be hearing from me very soon.”

There was a click and the line went silent. John watched Mary lower the phone and hit the end-call button before sliding it back into its cradle on the table. Her face had become incredibly calm, but her eyes were blazing. 

“Just outside Hersham,” one of the agents manning the laptop said.  “We’ve got it narrowed down to a half-mile radius.”

“Go,” Mycroft ordered sharply, and several people left the room.  He looked at Mary and John as he pulled his phone from his pocket.  “I don’t know what you two are choosing to hide, but do me the courtesy of staying put until my people can assess the situation.  And at least until we hear from them again. Am I clear?”

To John’s surprise, Mary simply nodded before brushing past Mycroft and towards the stairs.  John looked at him, slightly stunned, and started after her.

“Will it put them in danger?” Mycroft asked before he could leave the room.  “Not telling me whatever secret it is you have?”

John came to a halt in the doorway, his hand flexing at his side.

“I don’t know,” he admitted.  “I hope not.”

“Thank you for your honesty,” Mycroft said, looking down to his phone and typing in a number.  “We’ll take every precaution.”

The sound of him giving instructions to someone on the phone followed John as he made his way up the stairs and towards the nursery. The nightlight from the carousel lamp on the bureau cast a soft glow on the room and he found Mary curled onto the day bed on the far wall, Joanna’s blanket held tight against her chest. The sight undid the little resolve he had been clinging to over the past few hours and he felt himself breaking.

In a few strides, he was at the bed, crawling onto the mattress with her and wrapping her in his arms, feeling her body shake with the sobs that had been held in.  Minutes passed and he struggled between wanting to be a rock for her and letting his own cries spill out.  When her body began to calm and sag against his, he ran his hand along her back and up to thread his fingers into the short strands of her hair.

“I need to get to them first,” she said, her voice thick from emotion.

“You don’t have to do it alone.”

“They want me, John.  They want to hurt me and they’ll do anything to accomplish that.”

“If you’re afraid they’re going to out you -”

“It’s not just about that,” Mary said forcefully, pulling back to look at him.  “This is a mind game to them.  They’ll make sure everyone knows the kind of things I…these are the people I went after, John. This is what I did.”

“You could have told me this. You could have…”

“It wasn’t always good.  They had families, sometimes…sometimes, what they did barely qualified as illegal,” she said, desperately choking back tears. “Like Magnussen. I never wanted you to have to wonder about _who_ I had - ”

“If the people you went after were capable of doing what this man has done…taking our _child_ from us…you had every right,” he said fiercely, tears brimming in his eyes.  “ _Every_ right to do what you did.  Every single time.”

Mary smiled sadly at him before burying her face in the crook of his neck.  He could smell the flowery scent of her shampoo mixed with the smell of Joanna and he wanted nothing more than for things to go back to normal. To solve stupid crimes with his best friend who was so obliviously in love with his pathologist it was insane and then go home to hold his baby girl before crawling into bed with his wife and falling asleep knowing everything was as it should be.

 

* * *

 

The van hit a pothole in the road and jolted Molly in her seat.  She grasped for the armrest to steady herself, her balance impaired by the blindfold. They had been driving for some time and she estimated that they had to be somewhere outside of London. The men had been speaking to each other off and on – in Russian, she guessed – and she’d not been able to understand a word.  She took a small comfort in the fact that their tones were light and neither of them seemed angry. It made her a hair less frightened for her life.

It wasn’t much later that the van rolled to a stop and she heard the engine shut off.  The man next to her grabbed her arm and she scurried to follow him out of the van as best as she could with her eyes covered.  She clumped to the ground and only stayed upright because of his hand holding her so strongly.

Their feet crunched across gravel before hitting pavement and she heard a door open.  The building she was led into smelled like mildew and something distinctly metallic. Even with the blindfold on she could tell there were bright, fluorescent lights lining the space, the whiteness of the light penetrating the fabric. 

They hadn’t walked far when another door opened and Molly was guided through the doorway.  She felt fingers untying the blindfold and the fabric dropped away from her face. Blinking rapidly, she quickly took in her surroundings.  The room was almost bare, with cement walls and a lino floor.  A small bed with a grey, wool blanket sat in one corner, a tiny barred window directly above it.  Next to the bed stood a small table with a plastic cup placed on it.  There was not a single other item in the room.

In the most basic reaction a person could have to the situation, she worried what she would need to do if nature called. There was no way to know how long she would be kept or why, but she suspected freedom of any kind was out of the question.  It made her palms sweat.

Without a word, the man who had escorted her around, to put it politely, left and shut the door behind him. 

She was alone, in a dimly lit, bleak room that, somehow, was a hundred times less friendly than the morgue at Bart’s with its sterility and corpses.  And in the silence, she was more terrified than she had been since she’d been hauled out of that burned building.  With tentative steps, Molly made her way towards the bed, sinking down onto the stiff mattress and wondering what in the world she was going to do.

She wondered if Sherlock was being held in the same building.  Thinking that he might be close to her brought her an aching sort of solace.

The door opening made her start and she quickly rose from the bed.  The man she saw walking towards her through the doorway seemed incredibly familiar…

“Sherlock had good reason to worry at the gala,” he said.  “He’s a jealous one, isn’t he?  Watching me like a hawk to make sure I didn’t get anywhere near you.  He should have kept watching.  You are even more beautiful than I remember from that night.”

Molly kept silent, partly stunned that this was the man behind everything – the philanthropist Mike had been so impressed with. If Mary was right, if the criminal group she had stopped years ago had resurged with its remaining member at the helm, then this man was the missing brother who had eluded her. How did he think he was going to get away with what he’d done?  He’d be socially ruined when he was exposed, his high profile making it impossible for him to escape prosecution.

“I can’t tell you how well this has all worked out for me,” he went on with a laugh.  “Like little cherries on top, you and Sherlock.”

“What have you done with them?” Molly asked, clenching her fists as the man stepped closer to her.

“You are both so selfless, always thinking of others,” he said, looking her up and down.  “In your case, that will be a good quality to maintain.”

“Why are you doing this?” she demanded.

“You’re a clever woman, I’m sure you know why,” he answered, leaning in close to Molly.  She could smell expensive cologne on his clothes and high end product in his dark hair.  “I’m sure ‘Mary’ has told you all about my sordid, foul lifestyle.  But even if she hasn’t, you’ll find out soon enough. You’re going be a prize in my collection of girls.  It’s rare to be able to offer an English rose amongst the usual Muscovites.  The men will love you.  You’ll be dripping with gifts.”

He smiled at her before standing up straight and turning to leave.  The door shut again with a bang that echoed in the room. 

The control and the strength she had mustered when he was present seeped out of her and Molly reached behind her for the support of the metal bedframe as her breath came in short bursts. There was a part of her that had hoped she’d been taken as collateral, something to be bargained for, and while she might face danger for a time, she would be released eventually. Never had she thought that they meant to keep her, to take her away from England and subject her to a life of forced assault and God knew what else.

Tucking herself against the wall, she wrapped her arms around her legs and lowered her forehead to her knees, praying that she was found before she was moved out of the country.  Because she wasn’t about to go down without a fight when the time came.


	18. Chapter 18

More than twenty-four hours passed before Mary’s phone lit up with a new text message.  It had taken every bit of self-control she had to stay put, to not stir the suspicions of Mycroft by tearing out of the house and hunting down the group herself. What made it worse was that she knew exactly who his team was looking for and there was nothing she could do to tell them unless she wanted to explain her connection.  It was ripping her apart on the inside, watching Mycroft utilize every resource he had to track down the network and knowing that she had what could possibly be the key to finding her daughter, but the revelation would mean her certain arrest and spending the rest of her life in prison. The more time that passed, the closer she came to confessing everything, willing to do whatever it took to get Joanna back, even if it meant only getting to see her precious daughter on visiting days.

John was the only thing holding her back, telling her they’d come too far for their family to be ripped apart. He rightly reasoned that giving Mycroft the name of a man who might or might not be running things from inside London wouldn’t get them any closer to finding them.  They were already working with an abundance of surveillance footage and the testimony from the Fishers, and Mary knew that the only guarantee for speaking up would be her undoing.

The first phone call had turned out to be a false lead when the agents had descended on Hersham, finding no trace of the kidnappers. So when Mary picked up her phone and saw the text from a blocked number, she tried not to let her heart swell with hope.  She slid her finger along the screen, opening the phone to the message center.

_Hello again, Mary.  I have very important instructions for you that I expect to be followed to the letter. I want you, and only you, to be at Piccadilly Circus in one hour.  Just you. If we see anyone else, I tell my team to take everyone and leave and you will never see your daughter or your friends again.  You know how we operate._

Mary checked the time.  Nine twenty-three in the morning.  She would easily make it.  The morning crowds would just be starting to gather, meaning she would be at a disadvantage with all of those people around.  Which, no doubt, was exactly what they had planned.

Thinking quickly, she navigated away from the text and sent out a new one, pocketing her phone when she was done and going to seek out John in the kitchen.  She paused in the doorway, watching him prepare eggs and bacon while tea steeped on the counter.  He’d been making sure she ate, throwing himself into the role of caretaker after he’d found her crumbling into pieces that morning before.  Not that he was faring much better.  He was just coping with the situation in the way John Watson always did: by taking control of what he could.

Mary walked over to him, gently slipping her arm along his lower back.

“Piccadilly Circus, one hour. I need to leave now,” she whispered to him.

He dropped the spatula he was holding and turned to stare at her, his brow drawn in deep concern.

“Did they -”

“Text, just a few minutes ago,” she explained, holding her phone out for him to read the message.

“Do we tell Mycroft?” John asked her, his voice hushed as he handed her phone back.

“We have no choice.  I can’t get out of here without being seen, he has the place surrounded after what happened,” Mary replied.

There was a moment of silence while they considered what to do.  The bacon hissed and spit in the pan and John reached out to turn the burner off.

“Right,” he said, pulling out his own phone and dialing.  “Mycroft…we received a message.  They want Mary. No one else can be there, it can only be her, so you need to keep your people away…oh, I would beg to differ, I’ve seen your mother boss you around, I’d say you do take orders from other people. Now they have threatened to do worse than they already have, so we need to do what they say…thank you.”

He ended the call and looked at her with a nod. Mary was suddenly overwhelmed with love for him, laying her hands along the sides of his face and pulling him towards her to meet her lips.  John gripped her waist, kissing her deeply before pulling away.

“Be careful,” he told her.

“Always,” she promised.

There were more people than she would have expected when she reached her destination.  The morning haze was burning off as the sun rose and the electric billboards were flashing their advertisements as usual.  It felt an incredibly wrong time and place to negotiate with a criminal trafficking network, but she’d known them to be even bolder in some cases.

Her eyes wandered the crowd, making note of everyone she saw as she fiddled with her phone in her coat pocket. A dozen yards from where she stood, she caught sight of a lanky man standing near a souvenir stall. He was covered in ratty clothes and had a cap pulled down over his brow.  He met her eye briefly and gave the smallest nod.

She glanced quickly away from Wiggins, feeling surer of her plan.

Moments later, a hand grasped her elbow and forced her to start walking.  She looked up at a man with blonde hair and blue eyes who looked like any other person wandering the plaza.

“Don’t put up a fuss, love, just keep moving and everything will be fine,” he said.

Pushing down her instinct to fight, Mary followed his advice as he led her towards a grey car.  He opened the passenger door for her and smiled like they were on some sort of date.  Mary watched him warily as she slid into the seat, her eyes tracking his every movement while he rounded the car and climbed into the driver’s seat.

He pointedly ignored her as he drove through London, flipping through radio stations and occasionally criticizing songs that were playing, using some choice language to do so.  Just when Mary was starting to lose her patience, thinking it was all some sort of joke to divert her attention, he pulled abruptly into the dark garage of a building.  He headed straight for a corner of the garage and parked quickly next to a van where two other men were waiting.

“Out,” he ordered.

Mary obeyed with some irritation, feeling jerked around and anxious to find out what they wanted from her.  The two men descended on her, one thrusting her arms up while the other began a pat down.  She grimaced when his hand landed on her gun tucked into the waistband of her trousers. He laughed.

“How did you think you would get away with this?” he asked.

The accent was Romanian, a coastal dialect specifically.  She knew it well.

The man continued his search and came across her phone in her pocket, taking it as well.  Before she could protest, the man holding her arms wrenched them down while the blond produced what looked like a black pillowcase.  Running on pure instinct, Mary yanked an arm free and slammed her elbow into her captor’s stomach, hearing him let out a grunt as he dropped her other arm and fell away.  The man who had taken her gun threw his arm across the back of her neck, slamming her into the side of the van and cramming the gun against the small of her back. Her breathing came out in staggered bursts, the wind almost knocked out of her as she was pressed against the metal.

“Do you want to see your daughter alive?” he growled in her ear.

Mary nodded curtly.

“Then you do as we say,” he warned her.

The blonde shoved the pillowcase over her head and she was escorted roughly into the back of the van.

It was impossible to know how long they drove, but Mary approximated that it couldn’t have been more than an hour.  She’d given up on trying to navigate their route in her mind and they kept her eyes covered right up until she was taken out of the van and into a building.  When the cover was finally ripped from her head, she found herself in a small, sparse office. Seated at a dark metal desk directly in front of her was a man she hated herself instantly for not recognizing two nights before.  He’d had work done – a stronger jawline, a different nose, his hair dyed shades darker. The natural changes of ten years of aging had made their impact as well, making him unrecognizable until she’d been given the clues as to who she was looking at.

“Maksim Zherdev,” she muttered.

“Seems as though we’ve both changed a bit over the years, haven’t we?” he said, standing from his chair and rounding the table to face her.  “A lifetime of crime and loss will do that to you.”

“Your brother deserved everything he got,” Mary spat out.

“As do you,” he shouted, momentarily losing the cool demeanor he presented.  His jaw tensed and he tipped his chin down, pulling himself together as he stepped closer.  “Has it been eating away at your redeemed soul, this whole thing?  Has it been consuming your every thought that your flesh and blood, your family, was ripped away from you?”

Mary did not answer, swallowing a wave of retorts and vile comebacks that she very much wished to unleash on him. Her silence seemed to rile him more than any words could have and he reached out, roughly spinning her around and prodding at her back to get her to walk with him.  Her legs moved quickly to keep up with his long strides as she was led through the corridors of the building.  When they came to a door with three guards standing outside, Maksim barked out an order.

“Deschide usa!” he yelled and the man nearest to them quickly pulled out a key card to unlock the door.

In an instant, Mary was marched into the room and her eyes landed on a single form standing in the middle of the barrenness. She felt the breath leave her lungs and thought for a moment that she might cry, from joy or fear, she wasn’t sure.

“Mary,” Sherlock said softly, his arms holding Joanna tightly.

“Is she -”

“She’s fine,” he told her quickly.

“I told you we wouldn’t hurt her,” Maksim said behind her. “You even get to take her back, if you want.  Right this very minute. But if you take her, we will be disappearing with your friends and you know exactly how hard it is to find us once we decide to slip away.  If you leave them behind, they might not even be alive the next time -”

“Joanna,” Mary said firmly, without a second’s hesitation. “Give me my daughter.”

 

* * *

 

Sherlock’s chest relaxed in relief. He was amazed Maksim had even bothered with the ploy, as though Mary would walk away from the building with anyone but Joanna.  When they’d brought the child to him suddenly, he’d started to suspect what had been planned all along. What he couldn’t quite figure was why. Maksim had spent years building up a double identity, waiting for his moment to exact revenge. He was ruthless and obviously violent. So why, then, make it so easy for Mary to save her child after little more than a day of agony from her kidnapping?

As Mary stepped forward, her arms extending to take her baby, those thoughts mattered very little to Sherlock. He looked her in the eye, trying to communicate some sort of assurance that she was absolutely in the right as he gently passed the child over to her.  He could see her breathe in as though it was the first breath she’d taken in hours.  Her gaze lingered on him and she nodded briefly before turning towards the door.

He watched her retreating back, knowing that she wanted nothing more than to bolt from the building and run to safety. But she wouldn’t do that, not without risking everyone’s lives.  In fact, she slowed as she approached Maksim, every muscle in her body tensed and ready for a fight.  She looked like a cat rounding to attack.

“What was the point?” she demanded, holding her daughter even closer as Maksim looked towards her.

“To remind you that someone knows,” he said with a smile.  “And you won’t expose me. You can’t, not without exposing yourself.  For the rest of your life, I’ll be out there…watching.  Like you watched my brother.  And destroyed my family.  Always remember that I will be there.”

Sherlock watched Mary’s face change ever so slightly, her eyes narrowing.  She was turning the words over in her mind just as he was, coming to understand that this was only the first move in what promised to be a larger game. A very complicated game.

Maksim glanced at his men.

“Take her back,” he instructed them.

When Mary had been removed from the room, Maksim turned his attention to Sherlock once more.  Thoughts shot through his mind of ways to incapacitate him, to knock him out cold or even to kill him.  Maksim had a weak right knee from an old injury and his breathing pattern indicated poor lungs, perhaps asthma of some sort.  It would be all too easy for a precisely placed blow to throw him into a fit.

But then what?  Face a building full of criminals and guards who were no doubt under instructions to set the whole place ablaze if the plans went wrong? He had no idea where Molly was and if something happened to her before he could find her…

“Aren’t we having fun, Mr. Holmes?” Maksim said, straightening his jacket.  “You’d better rest up, we’ll be on the move very soon.”

 

* * *

 

 

John paced the entryway of his house in agitation, trying to block out the sounds of MI6 and Mycroft shooting out snide orders in his living room.  His hands twitched anxiously at his side and he longed to retrieve his gun from its hiding spot and run out to fight…someone, anyone who had a hand in what was happening. It had been over three hours since Mary had left.  Since then, Mycroft’s team had managed to find a connection between Kostya’s bank account and one in Ukraine, and they had been working frantically to track down the owner. They were narrowing in on the whole operation and John began to find himself worried about what else they would find before Mary returned.

As though on cue, he heard a commotion of voices from outside and in the next moment, the front door opened and Mary burst through with Joanna in her arms and a stony expression on her face. John rushed towards her, taking them both in his arms and pressing his mouth to her ear.

“They’re getting closer to finding out,” he whispered hurriedly, trying to overcome the rush of emotion in order to warn her.

“I don’t care.”

Her reply shocked him.  He pulled back to look at her and saw a strange resignation in her eyes.  Before he had a chance to push the issue, Mycroft entered the hall.  Mary handed Joanna to John and he felt a gut wrenching relief unlike any he’d ever experienced to be holding his daughter again. 

Reaching into her coat pocket, Mary extracted her phone and activated it before handing it over to Mycroft.  He looked to the screen and back to her in confusion.

“They’re in a building just outside Crawley,” she said in a clipped tone. 

“How did you…” Mycroft started, looking at the phone again.

“Honestly, with all the gadgets you have, you really underestimate the simplest solutions,” she said critically. “It’s a basic running app that can connect to other phones.  I started it before we left Piccadilly Circus, left it running, and locked the phone down. Wiggins was tracking our every movement on his phone should they have refused to let me have mine back. It’ll take you right to them. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go lie down for a minute,” she finished, her voice showing the strain of all she had been through.  She glanced at John. “Jo will need a bottle soon.”

She turned and headed for the stairs, wiping a hand over her face.

John blinked in amazement for a moment and turned to look at an equally amazed, and impressed, Mycroft. 

“Track the route and get a rescue team ready,” Mycroft said to an agent standing directly behind him as he handed over the phone. He considered John for a moment. “You have a very clever wife.”

John swallowed nervously and nodded. His daughter chose that moment to start making her hunger known, letting out the beginnings of a good wail and saving him from the scrutinizing gaze of Mycroft Holmes.

“Go take care of your child,” Mycroft said dismissively, turning to join the efforts underway in the living room.

Five minutes later, John had Joanna securely tucked in his arms and a warm bottle at her mouth, ascending the stairs to join Mary and take a few moments of calm.  He nudged the door of their bedroom open, expecting to find her resting on the bed. When she was nowhere to be seen, he tried the bath.

“Mary?” he called softly, tapping on the door as best he could while carrying the baby. 

He peeked into the bath when he received no answer. Brow furrowing at the empty room, he turned and headed back into the hall, walking towards the nursery. It, too, was empty. Dread started to seep into him and his face fell as it dawned on him what she’d done.

“Oh no…”

Shifting Joanna and walking as quickly as he could, he rushed down the stairs and into the lounge.

“She’s gone after them,” he called to Mycroft.

The activity in the room slowed and the elder Holmes gave him a curious look.

“What do you mean she’s gone after them?” he inquired. “What does she expect to do?”

“I don’t know.  Something drastic.  But she’s gone and she knows where they are,” John replied, imploring Mycroft to understand without having to state it outright.  “We need to get there before her.”


	19. Chapter 19

Sherlock was starting to go slightly mad in his confinement.  There were times in the past when he would have given anything for the quiet of his current situation just to be able to _think_ , to sort out all of the information in his head.  But it was maddening to be trapped where he was, knowing he had everything figured out and solved and not being able to act and help. 

They’d essentially ignored him except when it was time to use him as a prop in their twisted game.  Hadn’t brought him food or water (not that he cared, he’d gone longer without either) and in reply to his threat to sully the room if they gave him no other choice, they’d tossed a bucket through the doorway.  A bloody _bucket_.  The degradation was infuriating.

And what they’d done to the Watsons…what they were threatening to do with Molly…he was ready to rip the door off its hinges with his bare hands.  In fact, he was very much contemplating it as he stood in front of the metal, inspecting the design and looking for any promise of being able to manually detach it.

With his face pressed close to the crack between the door and the wall, he heard the start of the distant commotion rather well.  At first he thought it was an argument amongst the ranks, two men fighting over some trivial issue.  But then he heard the sound of a muffled explosion that shook the walls followed by gunshots, the sound of the fight slowly getting closer until it was right outside the door.  A body was slammed into the metal and he bolted backwards from the sudden assault on his eardrums.  He watched the door, his heart thudding as he prepared himself for either a rescue or a brawl, and heard the beep of the key card before the door unlocked.

It shouldn’t have surprised him, really, to see Mary charging into the room, dressed for the job almost as she had been in Magnussen’s office.  She looked him up and down quickly.

“Are you okay?  Did they hurt you?” she demanded.

“No.”

“Good.  Then get out.  Run, now,” she ordered, moving towards the door and pointing with her weapon in the direction she had come.

“Molly -”

“I’ll find her,” she told him firmly.  “If you come with me, you’ll only slow me down.  The way back is clear, but it won’t stay that way for long, you need to go _now_ , Sherlock.”

“I’m not leaving -”

“Yes, you are!” Mary shouted at him, her face deadly serious.  “Do you remember what they do to evidence they want to bury?  They just tried once and it won’t be long before someone manages to actually do it and we’re wasting time!”

Her chest was rising and falling rapidly with each breath and Sherlock suddenly realized what was happening, what she was trying to do.  He shook his head slightly, worry taking over.

“You don’t need to do this alone, Mary.”

Letting out a frustrated huff, she dropped her hands to her sides and looked at him with an expression only a mother could manage.

“Oh my God, you are the most stubborn idiot I’ve ever met in my life.  Would you just go?  Or do I need to threaten to shoot you again?”

It was the most absurd reaction to have to her words, but he couldn’t help it – he laughed.  And as soon as he did, a smile crept onto her face as well.  Sherlock moved forward, stopping to place a hand along her cheek.  Her face sobered at his touch and he saw the absolute strength behind her eyes, knowing he could trust her to do this.

“It’s going to be all right,” she promised him as she reached up to grasp his hand, giving it a squeeze before releasing it.  “Now go.”

It was easy to follow the path to get out of the building.  All he needed to do was keep moving in the direction of the dead and unconscious men littering the halls until he reached a main throughway that led to a heavy set of double doors.  Smoke drifted in that part of the building and he saw a portion of a wall blown out and smoldering; clearly the attempt at a detonation that Mary had warned him about.  It took everything in him not to turn around and run after her in the search for Molly, but he forced his feet to move towards the doors, knowing that tearing through the building on his own might very well increase the chances of the whole place being blown to pieces with all of them in it.

He pushed against the doors and out into the fresh air, seeing the bright lights of emergency vehicles and police approaching far in the distance. 

 

* * *

 

 

Molly couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so hungry.  Realistically, she knew they would give her food eventually and that there were other things to be worried about, but it was almost impossible to focus on that when her vision was starring and her limbs were starting to shake from going two days with nothing in her stomach. 

_At least the last time I was at the mercy of a killer he left us food_ , she thought miserably.

Her stomach tightened and growled and she stared resolutely at the cracks in the cement wall, trying to find patterns or shapes to pass the time and distract herself.  It was difficult without her contacts, not to mention the lighting was less than wonderful.  Her captors had given her the courtesy of some soap and fresh water to clean her hands before removing the contacts that had begun to irritate her eyes the night before.  She heard some remarks about not wanting her damaged by a simple eye infection as they left the room.  It was hard to be grateful for the gesture when she was perfectly aware what they were preserving her for. 

She was trying not to think about it too much, choosing to go over the various ways she could try to escape when they finally decided to move.  She’d managed to pry a screw from the bedframe and had thought about fashioning some sort of shank out of it.  Not that she knew a whole lot about that, but she did know which arteries to go after once she had that detail worked out. 

A cramp hit her stomach and she moaned, dropping her forehead to her hands.

Her head snapped back up when she heard muffled voices outside the door and the distinctive sound of gunshots, causing her blood to start pumping with anxiety.  It could be Sherlock.  Perhaps he’d escaped and managed to get to her, or had brought in the police.  A large part of her feared it was Maksim finally deciding he’d rather try her out himself before he sent her into whatever brothel awaited.  The few times he’d come to see her, his gaze had made her skin crawl.  She held her breath as the door rattled, then unlocked and swung open.

She squinted her eyes and tried to make out the form stepping quickly into the room.  It was clearly not Sherlock.

“Molly?”

“Mary?” she cried, jumping up from the floor and rushing towards her.

She threw her arms around Mary’s neck and hugged her, feeling herself shaking from relief.  Mary patted her back comfortingly for a moment before pulling away and slipping her arm around Molly’s waist.

“You okay?” she asked, concern lacing her voice.

“Bit weak,” Molly confessed, grateful for the support as they walked hastily out of the room.  “Did you find Joanna?  And Sherlock?”

“Safe,” Mary assured her, guiding them down the hall and past three bodies lying on the floor.  “Now we just need to get you out of here.  Quickly.”

They rounded a corner and came face to face with Maksim.  He face was contorted in rage and he was reaching for the gun in the holster beneath his jacket.  In the blink of an eye, Mary pushed Molly behind her and threw a bone-crunching blow to Maksim’s jaw, throwing him off balance.  He recovered before she was able to grab her weapon, retaliating by launching himself at her and smashing her into the wall.  Mary reached above her head to wrap her hands around the back of his neck, then dropped like a dead weight, bringing his face crashing into the wall with a sickening thud. 

Molly could only stand back in awe as she watched Mary wrench Maksim’s hands above his head while simultaneously driving her foot into his knee and bringing him to the ground.  She slammed his hands into the wall and reached down to his jacket with her free hand to pull his gun out, tucking it into her own belt.

She reached out and gripped his hair, yanking his head back so she could look into his eyes.

“This is my reminder,” she said, her voice dangerously low.  “That I will take you out if you so much as look in my direction again, if you even _think_ about my family.  If you breathe a word to anyone, I will end you.  I will make what you did to all those girls look like a merciful death.  Because you didn’t find who you were looking for when you started all of this…that woman you were looking for is dead.  I am not her.  And you will make sure _everyone_ knows that.  Otherwise I will hunt you down and rip you to shreds.  Remember that.”

She paused for a moment to take in his expression, unwavering and angry.  But he said nothing in return and she let go of his hair, watching his head droop before standing up and walking towards the door.  Molly stood waiting in the doorway, looking shocked, but nowhere near frightened.  Mary found momentary relief to see that there was no judgment in her face.  It was a strange comfort that was immediately crushed.

“I’ve waited ten years to track you down.”  Maksim’s voice was calm, though slightly muddled from his injuries.  She heard him spit before he went on.  Molly was looking in his direction, her face scrunched in worry.  “What’s another fourteen or fifteen years to wait until Joanna is old enough to be useful to me again?”

Mary didn’t even think.  There was no blind rage or overwhelming fury that drove her actions.  She witnessed Molly’s face contort in disgust, watched her eyes widen in fear, and made the easiest decision of her life.  Turning smoothly, she lifted her arm, aimed and squeezed the trigger.

Maksim had stood up while Mary’s back had been turned.  When the bullet lodged in his forehead, he remained standing for several long moments before keeling forward and thudding to the ground.

For a few seconds, Molly was frozen to the spot, too dazed to move.  Then, Mary was at her side and encouraging her to move again and Molly was able to process that the whole ordeal was over and they were going to get out all right.  She followed Mary as she rushed through the halls, feet pounding against the cement floors.  When the doors leading out of the building came into sight, Molly and Mary were nearly knocked off their feet by an explosion far too close for Molly’s liking.

“Run!” Mary yelled, righting Molly and pushing her towards the door.

Her hands slammed against the metal, pushing the door open as they bolted through the entrance and out into the daylight.  There was a long drive ahead of them leading to the road and at the end of the drive a swarm of police and emergency crew were descending on the scene.  And only a few hundred yards away could just make out Sherlock running towards her and her heart practically soared at the sight of him, pushing her to continue running. 

A black car at the head of the pack came to a screeching halt not far behind him and John and Mycroft both jumped out, John bolting to catch up with Sherlock. 

In the next moment, a second, massive blast ripped through the air behind them, sending a wave of heat across her back.  The wind left her lungs as Mary crashed into her side, knocking them both to the ground as the explosion sent debris through the air behind them.  Her ears rang and her stomach lurched.  Gravel bit into the flesh on her hands and her cheek.  When the tumult stopped and all she could hear were the sounds of MI6 agents yelling, she risked a look up.  Debris had flown everywhere and flaming bits of wood littered the ground.  She could see the forms of John and Sherlock pushing up from the ground not ten yards away and she almost sobbed in relief.  On shaking hands, she lifted herself, feeling Mary help her.

Vertigo hit her and she heaved, spitting bile onto the pavement.  She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and muttered an apology.

“Easy does it,” Mary said, a hand at the small of Molly’s back as she stood.

Taking deep breaths, she felt herself being handed off into a different set of arms and she practically collapsed against Sherlock’s chest.  His hands gripped at her back and into her hair, holding her impossibly tight.  Molly turned her head slightly and saw John and Mary in an equally tight embrace, her eyes catching Mary’s.  She mouthed a thank you, feeling tears pricking her eyes.  Mary gave her an emotion laced smile in return before being pulled into a deep kiss by John.

 

* * *

 

 

From the back of an ambulance, Molly watched the efforts of the fire crew as they extinguished the blazing building.  It was all a bit of a blur from the distance she was at, but she could tell that there was no rush on the part of the response team at the moment.  They’d pulled a few survivors from the building, but the rescue effort had dwindled in the past twenty minutes. 

She felt a great deal better after the IV solution had started to work its way into her body.  The paramedics had tried to treat Sherlock as well, with less than positive results.  He seemed to have had two priorities:  to make sure Molly was taken care of and to jump into the thick of things when the agents, along with Lestrade and Donovan, started putting together the pieces of what had happened.  He’d curtly turned down the treatment and rushed off. 

Molly looked up when a figure appeared at her side.

“And how are we doing, Doctor Hooper?” Mycroft asked.

“Medically stabilized,” she replied, lifting her arm to emphasize the IV drip.

Mycroft hummed in approval and seated himself next to her at the edge of the ambulance. 

“And other than physically?” he pressed.

Molly looked at him, rather surprised. 

“I…ehm, very relieved.  That wasn’t my idea of fun,” she confided.  “But I don’t think there’ll be any lasting damage.”

“Quite good to hear.  Do remember that we have resources should you need them,” he told her sincerely.

Molly nodded in understanding, filing away his offer in case she decided she would need to take him up on it later.  She glanced at him and for the first time noticed a streak of red along his forearm.

“You’re hurt,” she said, reaching out to touch his arm.

“Nothing to fuss over,” he replied.

“It could get infected,” she stated, her mind switching into professional gear.  She turned and got to her feet, going further into the ambulance to search for some needed items.  “Take off your jacket and roll up your sleeve.”

She witnessed a very dramatic sigh before he followed her instructions and was immediately reminded that the Holmes brothers were more alike than she usually realized.  Once she had what she needed, Molly settled in and started by cleaning the deep cut.  To his credit, Mycroft kept his reaction to a small wince.

“If you’re very good, you can have a cherry lolly,” she told him with a small smile. 

To her surprise, he smiled back.  It only took a few minutes to fix him up, quickly performing a task she had done so many times she would have been able to do it blindfolded, and she was reaching for a plaster in no time.

“You have a fine bedside manner, Molly,” he said after moment, watching her gently apply the plaster to his cleaned and sutured wound.

“I did a rotation in children’s hospital,” she muttered, focused on making sure everything was as it should be with his arm.

There was a moment of silence as she gathered the wrappings and looked out to find Sherlock in the crowd, if only to reassure herself that he was still okay.  Mycroft must have easily deduced the direction of her gaze.

“I’ve watched him wrecked by other relationships,” Mycroft started to explain simply, his expression more personal and concerned than she had ever seen him.  “Distracted beyond belief and then spiraling into self-destruction when it all ended.  You’ll forgive me if I didn’t want to see history repeat itself.”

Molly wasn’t sure what to make of his comments.  It frightened her that Mycroft would think she held that much power over Sherlock.  At the same time, she was almost pleased that he recognized how important she and Sherlock were to each other.  If Mycroft saw it, acknowledged it, then she didn’t feel nearly as crazy for hoping for a future with Sherlock Holmes.

“You obviously hold a special place in his heart,” Mycroft went on.  “He trusts you implicitly.  I should have seen it three years ago when he pulled you into his plans.”

“S’okay,” she said, folding the plastic wrappings of the bandage between her fingers for lack of anything else to keep them occupied.  “I understand.  You don’t want to see him get hurt…we have that in common.”

He looked at her for a moment, then gave her a genuine smile.

“I’m not entirely sure which of us would be more frightening if something happened to him,” she said with a laugh.

“Add in the Watsons and I do believe the culprit would be ripped apart four ways,” he agreed.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock stepped away from a group of MI6 operatives, pleased that every effort would be made to bring down the international network run by Maksim Zherdev.  Not only for Mary, but for every life he and his brother had wrecked with their trafficking.  Lestrade had informed him that leniency would be given to Susan Fisher and that Lillian was recovering well.  Donovan had been able to interview her and she had confirmed everything, from being pulled into trafficking to getting her mother to engage Sherlock and John in the investigation. 

He hoped that things would improve in their lives now that they were free of the threats and the situation was over.

Glancing over at Mary and John huddled by a police car, he decided that one more issue needed to be addressed in order for everyone to be able to move on.  He walked towards them, glad that they were fairly separated from the rest of the crowd.

Mary reached out to him, rubbing a hand along his arm.

“You doing okay?” she asked.

“Just fine,” he smiled at her.  “But there is something we need to discuss.”

He saw John’s face tense and Mary’s smile dropped, worry replacing sympathy.

“I imagine you know it was too difficult to keep the heart of this situation secret.  Too much has been revealed and Mycroft is making a statement tomorrow regarding what happened tonight,” Sherlock said softly, ignoring Mary’s momentary look of panic.  “He’ll be officially reporting the death of an ex-CIA assassin who disappeared six years ago.  Killed in a fire during a confrontation with an old enemy.”

It took a moment for his words to sink in for both of them, but when they did he saw the immediate relief.  Mary looked as though she had been freed.  His smile widened when she pulled him into a tight embrace, whispering a heartfelt thank you.

“You saved a lot of lives today, Mary Watson,” he told her.  “It was the least that could be done for you.”

 

 


	20. Chapter 20

A dozen or so agents milled in and around Baker Street, drawing the attention of neighbors and irritating the motorists who expressed their feelings about the road being closed off with a horn blast. People only concerned with their own lives who couldn’t be bothered to understand the scene unfolding in front of them.  All they could see was the inconvenience to their day.  Not a thought for the lives of those in the building; lives which had almost been destroyed. 

Sherlock observed it all from the pavement, looking up at the brick facade and squinting slightly in the late afternoon sun. John and Mary had dashed inside the moment they pulled up, eager to get to Joanna, who had been left with Mrs. Hudson and a heavy guard.  Molly had followed, desperate for a change of clothes and the extra pair of glasses she had started keeping in Sherlock’s room.  For whatever reason, Sherlock was not ready to join them just yet. Perhaps it had to do with the strange MI6 agents rooting through his home, the sight of which would just send him into a fit if he caught them messing about with his things. He would have much preferred to be only in the company of the Watsons and Molly.

“You’re sure you won’t reconsider?” Mycroft asked, coming up to stand alongside his brother.

“As tempting as it is to spend months tracking down a trafficking network, I do believe your team has it well in hand,” Sherlock replied.  “It’ll fall apart quickly enough now that their leader has been eliminated.”

“Hm.  And I doubt Miss Hooper would be pleased to see you leave yet again,” Mycroft said casually.  Sherlock gave him an indifferent shrug.  “You know that Mummy will want to meet her.”

“Why would she want to meet her, she doesn’t even know about her,” Sherlock said, looking towards his brother with confusion before realization dawned.  He looked away again in irritation.  “Oh for god’s sake, you told her, didn’t you?”

“Well she’s always been so very keen to see you happily attached,” Mycroft said with a far-too-pleased smile.

“Pity she couldn’t be bothered to focus on your love life every once in a while.”

“She knew I was destined for bigger and better things,” Mycroft informed him, tilting his nose up slightly. “She’ll be very pleased, brother. They’ll get on quite well, I should think.”

“Of course they will, they already have a very important thing in common,” Sherlock said with a smug smile. “They both adore me.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes, straightening his jacket as he made to turn away.

“Mummy is obligated by blood,” he said. “There’s no accounting for Miss Hooper’s reasons.”

Sherlock chuckled to himself as he watched his brother walk away and climb into a black car, off to some meeting about saving the country or home to admire the opulence he had built around him. It was likely that he would never crave anything more from life than his work and solitude, satisfied with feeling superior to most aspects of the human condition. That would be fine for him, as long as he’d given up habit of trying to make Sherlock live the same way.

Noticing that the agents were slowly leaving the building, Sherlock looked up at the windows of 221B and wondered how to proceed. The learning curve was still rather high, but he couldn’t see ever going back to how things once were for him.

Only fools failed to accept change when faced with facts that supported adjustment.

Taking in a deep breath, he walked towards the door to 221.

  

* * *

 

 

When Molly emerged from Sherlock’s bedroom, dressed in a pair of his pyjama trousers and a jumper she had left on one of her visits, she found Mary standing in the kitchen, her hands gripping the counter as she stood over the kettle, waiting for it to boil.  She looked up when she heard Molly, giving her a small smile and raking a hand through her short hair. 

“Thought I would make tea,” she said. “Seemed like the right thing to do.”

“Tea’s good,” Molly agreed.  She clasped her hands in front of her, unsure of how to continue. “Are you…I mean, is everything okay?”

Mary let out a sigh and nodded, walking to the table and taking a seat.  Molly followed suit, adjusting her glasses as she sat down.

“John’s collecting Jo’s things from Mrs. Hudson’s flat,” Mary told her, crossing her arms on the table and leaning forward. “Thank God she’s too young to remember any of this.”

“You won’t tell her?” Molly asked, genuinely surprised.

In quick reflection, she realized that, no, of course John and Mary would not want to tell their daughter about the time she was kidnapped by an international criminal who was after her mother. Not exactly a classic bedtime story.

“John hardly knows anything about who I used to be,” Mary said quietly, looking down at her hands.  “That part of my life is behind me.  The last thing I want is Jo asking questions when she gets older.”

“But you saved her,” Molly said. “All of us.”

“And when she’s fifteen and can’t stand to have me in the same room, that won’t make one bit of difference,” Mary told her with a smile.  “But she’ll be safe, and she’ll love me even if she doesn’t say it, and that will be enough. She doesn’t need to know that I used to hunt the scum of the earth and hid my identity.”

“Well,” Molly said as she let out an exhausted breath. “If you ever get tired of nursing, you’ve something to fall back on – that would make a fantastic book.”

Mary laughed, shaking her head.

“No one would read about that,” she said.

“I, I definitely would,” Molly assured her. “Sounds a good deal better than most books I pick up these days.”

“Mm,” Mary nodded, considering. “Something to keep in mind, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Molly said with a smile.

For a moment, Mary stared down at the table, using the hem of her sleeve to rub at some blemish on the wood caused by Sherlock’s experimenting.  It was odd for Molly to see her in that moment, quietly doing something so mundane, when she knew what Mary was capable of.  It was the same person, but at the same time, it somehow wasn’t.

“I didn’t realize for a long time that you and Sherlock were…well, you and Sherlock,” Mary started, looking up at Molly. “So I’m sorry for not checking to make sure how you were doing after the wedding and…everything else. If I had known, I would have done something - ”

“Mary, it’s okay,” Molly said quickly. “You don’t need to explain. It’s all okay.”

She truly meant it.  Whatever the details were, Molly didn’t need to hear them. Sherlock and John had forgiven her and moved on, and that was all she needed to know.  The woman sitting in front of her had just risked everything to save Sherlock and Molly and that was enough to convince Molly of her true character.

The electric kettle let out a series of beeps, letting them know the water had finished boiling.  Mary stood up and walked over to a cupboard, pulling out two cups and setting them on the counter.  Molly’s brow furrowed.

“Aren’t you staying?”

“John wants to get home,” Mary explained. “Feeling rather the same way myself.”

Molly nodded in understanding. Her head turned as she heard John come into the flat, Joanna’s carrier in one hand and a diaper bag in the other. He looked like he was ready to take his family and hole up for about ten years.  The feeling would probably only last until the next exciting case came along, but she understood his current state of mind. It was tempting to stay shut away for a while, hoping to forget everything they had been through.

“Ready?” John asked, hooking the bag over his shoulder and holding his hand out for Mary.

She nodded and walked over to Molly to give her a quick hug and kiss on the cheek before joining her husband.

The flat was horribly quiet when everyone had gone. She realized she could no longer hear the fuss of the agents in the building and got up to wander over to the window, pulling the curtain back and looking down onto the street. Aside from a couple of suits chatting by a car, there was no one.  She blinked, thinking quickly before turning and walking out the door. For the first time since she’d been frequenting Baker Street, Molly climbed the stairs towards John’s old room, then continued up to the roof access door. 

She was unsurprised to see the ancient piece of metal cracked open and she gave it a push, grimacing at the grating sound it made.  Stepping through the doorway, she caught sight of Sherlock standing near the front of the building, one hand tucked behind his back as he gazed out at the sky.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock heard the door to the roof creak open and his mouth quirked up in a smile.  It had taken her less time than he’d estimated to find him.  Not that he was hiding.  He had just needed a little time away from the chaos, away from the presence of so many people in his space. 

Molly, on the other hand, was a very welcome presence. Even if he had just been caught smoking on the rooftop like a teenager.  He turned slightly, watching her approach, and flicked a bit of ash over the side of the building.

She held out her hand and he looked at her, confused. Wiggling her fingers impatiently, she looked pointedly at the cigarette.  His face dropped, resigned, and he handed the cigarette over expecting her to extinguish it and chastise him for his habit.  To his great surprise, she held it up to her lips and sucked in a breath, closing her eyes in relief.  She held the breath for a moment before letting it out, the smoke shooting up into the air in a thin stream.  Her eyes opened again and she handed the cigarette back over to him, her face passive as he looked her over.

“I didn’t know you had any real vices,” he said.

“Two,” she replied with a small smile. “Cigarettes, which I gave up ten years ago, and you…which I can’t seem to give up.”

“Both could wreck you.”

She was silent for several moments, taking in the view of London, before looking at him.

“I’ll take my chances,” she whispered. She turned fully, wrapping her arms around his waist in a desperate hug and burying her face against the front of his shirt. He flicked the cigarette away and slid his hands across her back, holding her, feeling her, smelling the familiar, sweet scent of her hair and feeling almost intoxicated from it. “Let’s go in, Sherlock.”

He followed her down the stairs and into the flat, closing the door behind him and reaching out for her hand to turn her towards him. He stepped forward, placing his hands on either side of her face, and leaned down to capture her mouth. Two days without her near him, without touching her or kissing her, not knowing if she was all right, had felt like an eternity.  With Molly finally in his arms again, he felt the weight of what had happened more viscerally than he had during his captivity.  His body shook with it, tightening his chest and making him grasp at Molly with a force he couldn’t explain as he backed them towards the bedroom.

She did nothing to slow him down. She pushed at his jacket as he navigated the hall and moved quickly onto the buttons of his shirt, her movements fevered and nowhere near delicate.  They only paused when he lowered her to the bed in the darkening room, Molly tossing her glasses onto the bedside table as he undid the cuffs of his shirt and yanked the piece of clothing off before lowering his body over hers once more. He lost himself in the feeling of her mouth, drowning in her love, barely aware of how they lost the rest of their clothes.  He wasn’t sure if it was their ordeal catching up with them causing the desperate need for closeness, but neither reached for a condom.  He hesitated, but Molly slid her hands down to his backside and wrapped her legs firmly behind his, pulling him to her.  When he finally sank into her, his mind was overcome with a feeling of completeness. 

He rocked into her slowly, holding her far too tight and acutely aware that he was never going to be able to give her up. He latched onto every breath, every gasp she made, every quiver of her body, and followed her into bliss.

Even if she hadn’t been holding him to her, Sherlock wouldn’t have moved once they recovered.  He wasn’t ready to lose contact with her body.

“Stay here,” he murmured, pressing a kiss into the curve of her neck.

“Of course I will,” Molly said, holding him tighter.

A look of surprised crossed her face when he pulled back to look her in the eye. 

“No…I mean _stay_. I want you here at Baker Street.”

Her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open slightly. Not exactly the reaction he had hoped for.

“Sherlock,” she said slowly.  “We’ve had a frightening time…but…”

“But what, Molly?” he asked, entirely unsure why she was wavering.

Very gently, she encouraged him to pull back and slid herself up to sit against his headboard, reaching out to take hold of his hands as he knelt between her legs.

“Sherlock,” she repeated.  “Less than a year ago, we were falling apart. Both of us.  It’s gotten so much better.  But…I just don’t want you to ask anything that you might regret…”

“Regret?” he said, feeling a clawing sense of uncertainty.  “What would I regret?”

Molly swallowed and took a breath.

“Asking me to live with you,” she explained. “I understand why you want it now, but I don’t want to push things.  If, if you’re not really ready…I just want to make sure this isn’t just because of what happened.”

Sherlock blinked, processing her words. She wasn’t saying no. But she was worried…concerned his current feelings weren’t sincere.

“You think I won’t want you here in time,” he clarified.

She licked her lips, carefully choosing her answer.

“Only if we jump in too quickly,” she told him, looking down at their entwined hands.  “Heightened emotions and all that…not always the best time to make big decisions.”

“There is nothing irrational about this, Molly,” Sherlock said firmly, his voice growing in intensity as he tried to get her to understand.  “I want you close to me after everything that has happened, I’ll grant you that, but isn’t this the next logical step anyway?  Is this not how I’m supposed to feel?  Am I not supposed to need you like my next breath?  Years of being told that I don’t feel, I don’t understand, that I have as much empathy as a block of stone…and now I can’t stand the thought of falling asleep without you in my arms.  So am I wrong feeling what I do?  Tell me, Molly, am I wrong?”

“Oh, no, it’s not wrong, Sherlock, it’s absolutely not wrong,” Molly said earnestly, reaching up to cradle his face in her hands. “I feel the same way. I do.  I would love to share a life with you.  I just, I know how you are about your space and…and everything. I want it to be…right.”

He understood her hesitation. He knew he wasn’t the easiest person to live with, and one misplaced row or expression of frustration with her company would ruin everything.  But the fact of the matter was that he couldn’t see coming home to an empty flat anymore, not when he’d learned to crave the way she fit right into his life.

Taking one of her hands in his, he turned his face and pressed his lips to her palm, then looked into her eyes and nodded. She needed time to think about the situation; he would give her that.

“I’ll be here anytime you need me,” she promised him with a smile.  “I’m not going anywhere.”

 

* * *

 

“What is this racket we’re listening to?”

“It’s a Christmas album, Mikey,” Mary said with a smirk, handing him a drink before settling into the plush sofa in the Holmes’ family living room.  “Hardly a racket.”

“I beg to differ,” Mycroft replied, giving her a tight smile and knowing he couldn’t do a thing about the nickname with his mother just steps away.

Not that Mrs. Holmes would have noticed, being far too busy holding onto Joanna’s little hands and helping her to stand and take a few tentative steps.  The little girl was dressed in an emerald green velvet romper with a shiny red and white candy cane stitched on the front.  It was Molly’s present, of course, and Joanna adored it inasmuch as a ten month old could.

Sherlock was fairly positive that Mycroft could be smoking at the moment and Mummy would not be the least interested. The only thing that seemed to be on her mind other than the Watsons’ child was pointing out that she had no grandchildren of her own while looking very unsubtly at Sherlock and Molly.

To her credit, Molly handled the chiding with good-natured smiles, far too pleased to be amongst the group and surrounded by Christmas cheer that rivaled any Sherlock had seen since his childhood. His mother and father had been overjoyed at the prospect of so many visitors and the decorations and baking had reached unheard of levels.  He’d eaten more roast goose and gingerbread that day than he had in his entire life.

It was frightening.

The only thing keeping him in his place was Molly tucked up against his side on the love seat, her hand resting on his knee and a permanent smile on her face as she watched Mrs. Holmes steer Joanna around the room. He tightened his arm around her shoulder.

“Bit more Christmas cheer coming your way,” John announced as he entered the room from the kitchen, carrying a tray of hot toddies.

Sherlock smirked as Mr. Holmes jumped up to help John distribute the drinks.  John had insisted on preparing the drinks the entire trip, shooting Sherlock a stony look when he tried to help.  There was no repairing that mistake anytime soon, apparently.

The afternoon wore on in the most mundane, ordinary way Christmas day possibly could, complete with complaints from Mycroft, shared stories of holiday traditions, and Mummy pulling out the photo albums much to annoyance of Sherlock and Mycroft.  John and Mary thoroughly enjoyed the opportunity to tease both of them and Sherlock would have found it in himself to be more irritated if it hadn’t been for the look on Molly’s face as she slowly flipped through the album in her lap. She smiled in the most endearing way as she looked at pictures of him helping his mother in the garden at the age of five or running across the hills with Redbeard at his heels.

When the drinks and the food finally caught up to the group, the Watsons excused themselves and wandered upstairs to put Joanna down for her nap and take the chance to catch some sleep themselves. Mummy and Dad began the process of cleaning the kitchen and Mycroft followed to help, though he feigned an air of being burdened with the task the entire time. 

Sherlock took Molly’s hand, leading her towards the front door.

“Care for a walk?” he asked.

“Lovely,” she said happily, grabbing their coats from the coatrack and following him out the door.

He led her down the path through the back garden. A thin layer of snow had stuck to the ground and it crunched slightly under their feet as they wandered over the fields, eventually reaching a lane that stretched towards town, passing cottages and farms as they went.  They’d been walking for just over half an hour when he stopped.

“What do you think?” he asked.

Molly looked up at him, a bit befuddled.

“About what?”

Sherlock nodded towards the cottage tucked away from the road in front of them.  Molly turned to look, her expression slowly taking on understanding.

“It’s charming,” she whispered.

“An investment my parents made for me when they weren’t entirely sure London was agreeing with me,” he told her, tucking his chin down as he looked at the stone and wood structure.

“It’s yours?” Molly said, staring up at him.

“Ours, if you want,” he said quickly. “Not anytime soon, obviously, both of us being so occupied London.  But it would be very useful for holidays.  And years from now, as a home when Baker Street no longer suits.”

He couldn’t quite read her face when he finally looked at her, but when she reached up to grab the lapels of his coat and yanked him down for a snog right there on the road, he had the feeling she was very pleased with the idea.

“Do you have a key?” she murmured between kisses.

“Of course,” he replied, breaking his hand away from holding her to reach into his pocket.

“Perfect,” she told him.  “Because as much as I have loved being with your family these past few days, there are certain things I’ve been missing…”

“Well if you weren’t so vocal, we could get away with it,” he said with a smirk as he pulled her up the walk towards the cottage.

“And whose fault is that?” she countered.

“Certainly not mine,” he said, giving her a wolfish grin before unlocking the door, then bending over to scoop her up into his arms.  Molly let out a delighted yelp, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling his mouth down to hers as he carried her inside.

 


End file.
